Resurrection
by Resurrection Six
Summary: Our leaders failed us. As an unfathomable plague spread, they ordered the incineration of our cities in the ill-conceived attempt to eradicate the disease. The order was not received well, but was executed faithfully; burn to rebuild. From the ashes of a pitiful existence rises a band of determined survivors bent on fighting for a resurrected future. This is their story.
1. Chapter 1: Scorched Earth

**Chapter One: Scorched Earth**

 _This is not good…_

Colonel Michael Ferrer struggled to maintain his non-descript expression in the face of news that worsened with every minute.

"Sir, we estimate that the National Guard units maintaining safe zones closest to the base remain at approximately fifty-percent, but we expect those numbers to drop over the next twelve hours." Standing behind the solitary podium before the gathered base leadership, Colonel Floyd Burson, the Chief of Combat Operations fought to retain the few remaining vestiges of composure. "We have received no updates from the company nearest the U of A nor any of its three subordinate platoons." He swallowed hard, choosing his words carefully as he continued, "We believe that the Los Angeles incident was the last straw."

Los Angeles. The last update of his prior day's shift had included the summary of entire units collapsing across southern California. Some had reportedly been overrun. Too many had abandoned their posts in the face of the incredibly devastating situation.

 _It's already begun here. How long can we hold out?_

Michael Ferrer was the second-in-command of the largest combined civil-military installations in southern Arizona. The airfield at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson housed not only a parent command staff organization, but a Fighter Wing of three A-10 ground attack squadrons, plus the air arm of the U.S. Border Patrol, rescue helicopters, modified transport aircraft, and a detachment of F-16 interceptors that had previously sat on strip-alert against incursions of America's southern airspace. All of that combat power almost seemed useless against the growing anarchy just across the fence on the base's perimeter. In the past few weeks, as the uncertainty brewed into outright panic, the headquarters staff agencies had fled to their parent command in Colorado while local police, sheriff, and other first responders had consolidated behind the protective walls of the Air Force base. Like many large cities across the nation, and the world for that matter, safe zones of survivors deemed uninfected had been carved from the city layout in the attempt to quarantine the spread of the virus that somehow reanimated the bodies of the dead.

 _The reanimated bodies of the dead…_ Just a few weeks ago, such a thought would have been considered beyond ridiculous. The dead didn't rise to walk— _there wasn't no coming back_. At first, the sequence of events seemed to flow like every other flash-pandemic that ultimately sputtered out like a candle breathing its last gasps of air. The initial sensationalism of half-informed news reports… the sudden rise of countless experts seemingly devoid of practical experience but rich in academia… amateur videos spreading virally across the internet… half-baked schemes "guaranteed" to protect the masses from this yet-unidentified plague… The early news reports that no one could bring themselves to believe… _"In the medical lab we had a cadaver… the limbs had all been removed—the corpse was long dead, but the eyes flew open and the torso began thrashing… there was no rational explanation…"_ Many of the videos defied common sense; persons stumbling—being shot multiple times but continuing to walk as though nothing had happened… _"They're dead—they're pretty messed up…"_ The opinions of some commentators seemed to downplay the epidemic while the home-shot videos on social media enflamed a growing panic. Impossible images seemed to show bodies absorbing countless rounds of ammunition with seemingly no effect.

Impossible.

When the episode failed to fade back to normalcy like so many other disease outbreaks, the panic began to grow and spread. Quickly. Demonstrations became riots. Inside the panic, the dead rose quickly and their ranks swelled. The dead begot the dead, and panic became a tidal wave of irrational emotion that flooded communities with reckless abandon. Government services shut down and military units attempted to recall and consolidate all forces.

But even as the panic reached an initial fever pitch, saviors in the form of National Guardsmen augmented the ranks of local authorities, and for a moment, a calm generated by the apparent arrival of authorities almost settled into the horrified communities.

Almost.

Walls erected for protection quickly began to feel like enclosures. The once welcomed saviors morphed into wardens, and the vital supplies they provided failed to satisfy. An anger brewed in the absence of credible and readily-available information. Uncertainty brooded, and a populace barricaded behind protective wires simmered with rebellious undertones.

The images from the news broadcasts—before they were shut down—haunted his every thought. The faces staring at the cameras, almost pleading in dire uncertainty; he had seen them before—in Iraq. A population enclosed by fences and concrete barricades—behind wires and under the watchful eye of an army of occupation… the looks on their faces, both there and now here; fear, distrust, seething anger, exasperation, desperation…

Insurgency.

But the most recent images had not come from Iraq or Afghanistan, or from any refugee center in a war-torn corner of the planet. They were broadcast from Tucson—from the very community that he lived and worked amongst- in the heart of the United States. And, every time he saw those images flash across either the television screen or the mental replay in his mind, he couldn't help but feel the storm that brewed in plain sight. Just as it had felt in Iraq, he understood that the community outside the walls of his base was being swept by an invisible hand towards a fate that no one could neither control nor accurately foresee.

And he was afraid.

Some think that warriors do not feel fear—that they have some instinctive or trained ability to bypass the most primal emotional inclinations; nothing could be further from the truth. Without fear, without anxiety and the mortal understanding of impending or possible death, there could be no courage. Warriors just understood the manner with which to control that fear. Their training taught them to recognize it, to suppress it, and to overcome it. _What will it be like… the first time?_ The question, common to every untested warrior before he or she could set foot upon an actual battlefield, too was familiar, and he recognized the anxiety in the eyes of even his most battle-hardened veterans in this new arena. Colonel Ferrer himself had known this emotion all too often in his many forays into combat across his many years of dedicated service. As unwelcomed as it remained, and with as much experience as he had in controlling it, it never ceased to surprise him when he felt the familiar iciness tugging at the corners of his gut in just such situations as he found himself tonight.

 _What do you do when the fear comes for you?_ he had asked as a young warrior on the eve of Operation Desert Storm. He answered himself just as his patient flight lead had done so under the cover of the dark Arabian night so many years ago…

 _Just keep moving towards the sound of the battle. Let your training take over from there and do the rest._

As his combat operations chief continued his briefing, Colonel Ferrer allowed his face to sink to his hands and squeezed the bridge of his nose in an attempt to redirect the throbbing hammer that pounded his eyes. He wondered for perhaps the hundredth time in the last hour where his boss, the damned Wing Commander, could have possibly disappeared to. Colonel Lawrence Hahnfeld had a poor habit of deferring important decisions to his deputy, and the increasing severity of their situation became just another in a long series of expected letdowns from an ineffective officer.

 _Now that the world has truly gone to hell in a handbasket, it makes sense that he'd be AWOL…_

Lost in his own thoughts, he nearly missed the fact that Colonel Burson had handed over the briefing podium to the intelligence squadron commander. Major Malachi Hartnett was a promising young officer—the type that the Air Force branded as an "HPO," or high potential officer. Some in the ranks called these types "fast-burners" or strivers; others called them "yes-men" and "ass-kissers." Hartnett was renowned f or his extremely professional and polished demeanor before senior leaders. Even here, weeks into the largest crisis anyone in the room could even fathom, his uniform was immaculate and his words flowed effortlessly. Colonel Hahnfeld had personally elevated the young field grade officer to the position of squadron commander, but in the absence of the Wing Commander, some in the room found the maneuver room to finally challenge what they knew to be a weak leader propped up by over-inflated performance appraisals and over-estimated perceptions. Colonel Ferrer much preferred the morning evening shift intelligence briefing, led by the second-in-command of the intelligence squadron. That briefer, Captain Kara Burns, while also polished and professional, had the enviable quality of speaking directly to the point regardless of any superficial biases or desires—she cut straight to the chase and wasn't afraid to loose the occasional f-bomb. Now, in the morning briefing staffed by the day shift leadership, Mike Ferrer had to endure Malachi Hartnett's inexplicably upbeat assessment of a world that appeared to be pulling itself apart at the seams.

"Sir, last night was relatively quiet in the local area. We only had a handful of reports of looting or civil unrest. Previously briefed indications of increased agitation amongst quarantined civilians appeared to be premature—rumors only." Out of the corner of his eye, Colonel Ferrer caught Kara allowing her head to drop in a sign of obvious disagreement. Previous reports of gang-initiated crime also dropped off significantly overnight—Tucson Police reported no arrests over the last twelve hours."

As the words bounced carelessly from the walls, the acting base commander hazarded a glance towards the Tucson Police representative in the room. Dark bags beneath utterly exhausted eyes that clearly not been acquainted with sleep in the recent past told him a different story. _When it's my turn to brief, I hope you're not shocked by what I have to say… There's a reason we're not making arrests, and it's not because crime has dropped._ The multiple rows of Tucson Police and Pima County Sheriff vehicles that had begun filling the parking lots around the security forces building, coupled with a request to arrange billeting for nearly fifty law enforcement individuals told a different story—everyone who could had begun consolidating their forces within the perimeter of the massive Air Force base.

"Sir, I've also personally taken the time to do a thorough review of the situation outside the gates and have an assessment of the base's current vulnerability," he proudly proclaimed. At such a statement, many of the assembled officers and representatives sat up slightly or leaned into the briefing, their attention suddenly piqued. "First, the activity noted yesterday by Captain Burns at the Alvernon overpass on the west side, and the supposed reconnoitering along the embankment north of Golf Links appears to be random and insignificant." Kara Burns' jaw fell to her chest and her cheeks flushed a sudden crimson. Before she could protest, Malachi continued. "I reviewed photographs of individuals at both of these locations—they appear to be juvenile individuals who took advantage of breaches in the quarantine zones and who are simply expressing youthful curiosity in the direction of the base."

"BULLSHIT!" Lieutenant Toby Roberson of the base Security Forces Squadron sprang to his feet and hurled his vehement disagreement. Before his could continue, Major Hartnett curtly cut him off.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant," he dragged the man's lower rank out slowly, with an apparent condescension that took the interrupting officer by surprise, "but I don't consider the actions of children to be a direct threat to this installation." His voice rose, and he raised a photograph above his head. "THIS is the evidence. THIS is what I reviewed. NOTICE! A child on a bicycle." He narrowed his eyes and focused squarely on the standing Lieutenant with a sneer. "Hardly what I'd assess as a viable threat to the largest military organization in the state." Lieutenant Roberson turned directly to the acting commander and attempted to plead his case.

"Sir, with all due respect, my troops and I," he emphasized the personal connection to his contention, "have seen this situation first-hand. Those may be juveniles—I believe them to be thirteen or fourteen years old—but they are exhibiting the EXACT reconnaissance patterns we saw employed by insurgent groups both in Iraq and Afghanistan."

Toby Roberson may have worn a relatively low rank amongst the officer corps, but his experience far surpassed the silver bar on his collar. He was a prior-enlisted officer; a man who had served for more than five years as a security forces defender from within the enlisted ranks. His combat experience in both theaters of the Global War on Terror had earned him numerous medals for valor in battle, and his qualities as a leader endured him to his subordinates, sometimes to the chagrin of his own superiors. He was known to possess a "low tolerance for bullshit", as he himself put it, and the current briefing had clearly pushed him past his personal red line.

"Lieutenant, this isn't Afghanistan," Malachi snorted with thinly veiled disdain. "We don't have insurgent groups threatening the viability of the United States in Tucson Ariz—"

"Thirteen is fighting age across the globe. There's no reason to doubt that the local gangs aren't concealing their activity through the use of underage recruits—last night's briefing pointed us towards the fact that several groups have their eyes on what we've got on this side of the fence—"

"Lieutenant, you are WAY OUT OF LINE!" Major Hartnett burst, suddenly losing all vestiges of composure. Colonel Ferrer threw up his arm and silenced the room.

"That's ENOUGH!" he boomed. The two verbal pugilists refused to drop their glowering stares at one another, even as the commander ordered them to cease their quarreling. "Thank you Malachi—I have a copy of the latest assessment and I'll get up with you if I have further questions." He'd had enough of the rosy picture that the intelligence chief continuously tried to paint. He wondered if he should have relieved Major Hartnett of his duties earlier but quickly abandoned the thought—there simply wan't time for second-guessing right now. _Act—decide—react, but don't look back_. He made up his mind then and there—this was the last briefing he'd take from the Major; he just didn't have time for an agenda-driven assessment. Kara Burns' eyes flashed a moment's excitement at the commanders' words; she produced the assessment, not her boss. And, to his own dismay, Malachi Hartnett had brushed aside the written assessment earlier, preferring to focus on the spoken briefing and allowing his subordinate to "waste her time typing up and repeating the thoughts of others." An obvious wounding to his pride surfaced in his silence, and he quickly took his seat. "Lieutenant Roberson—get with our local police and sheriff representatives after this meeting and provide me with a worst-case course of action by the next update briefing."

* * *

Hours earlier, under the cover of darkness, Master Sergeant Jeffrey Ingram sat in a blacked out observation bunker on the northwest side of the base. He sucked the last drops of bitter black coffee from a worn and flimsy foam cup as he rubbed his eyes and tried to focus beyond the base perimeter. With their forces dwindling and stretched too thin, he had volunteered to man the shift by himself in order to fill the gap between the main observation towers and prevent an overlap in surveillance. He checked his watch for the twentieth time in the last five minutes and felt a sudden relief at the sight of headlights approaching along the perimeter road. A set of siren lights capped the top of this particular Humvee, marking the shift supervisor's personal vehicle. Jeff felt a second wave of relief as he recognized the tall, thin build of Lieutenant Roberson sliding from the rugged vehicle. He bent back into the cramped interior and emerged with a massive steaming foam cup in each hand. Ever the tactician, he killed all lights before advancing to Jeff's covert position.

"Thought you could use some joe," the Lieutenant began as he proffered the large cup.

"Always appreciated boss," Jeff replied as he quickly raised the disposable mug to his lips. _Goddamn_ , he thought, _el-tee even knows how to make a damned good cup of coffee!_ At the taste of the dark elixir, he involuntarily closed his eyes and dropped his head back, allowing the seat back to take the weight of the Kevlar helmet from his temples momentarily.

"I wish I could take credit for that," the Lieutenant offered, "but it's the wives who managed to make a good batch. " He laughed, "and I knew you'd kick my ass at changeover if you found out I had kept it for myself!"

"Naww, that'd be a Watkins thing," Jeff whispered before he could stop himself. Major Courtney Watkins, their squadron commander, rarely earned complimentary remarks from his troops.

Toby stopped him immediately. "Not going there Jeff. Shut up and enjoy your coffee." Both men smiled to themselves. After a few minutes of contented silence, the officer stood and lifted a set of night vision goggles to his eyes, peering through the perimeter. "Any action tonight?"

"That kid on the bike was back a few hours ago. He had a flashlight this time—if I didn't know better, I'd swear that little shit was takin' notes." As his whispers floated across the darkness, the Lieutenant dropped his night vision devices and drew closer to the older troop.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"That damned flashlight would come on every time we emitted a light on this side. Open the door, light comes on in the hummer, there's the flashlight. Turn on a light to make a note or find something in the passenger seat and bam—flashlight over there." Jeff's words hesitated slightly with an anxiousness that Toby recognized as a combat twitch; when the troops knowingly mentioned something that put them on the path towards conflict, their body emitted their own personal combat biases. Some exerted excitement, others apprehension. But the "combat twitch," as he called it, came out every time a direct correlation pointed towards impending battle. Something had clearly triggered Jeff's battle instinct.

"Do you think it's the same kid from this afternoon?" the officer queried.

"If it ain't, he's acting in the exact same manner," Jeff opined softly. "That might just be a coincidence, but I don't think we base our plans on coincidences. I certainly don't plan to."

"I'll bring it up at the update brief in a couple of hours," Toby whispered. "Let me see if intel can collaborate anything." He drew close enough in the darkness to look directly into the sergeant's eyes. "How long have you been awake, Jeff?"

The non-commissioned officer shrugged sheepishly. "Shit, I dunno sir. Thirty hours maybe." He quickly added, "I'm good to finish this shift."

"Bullshit. You're done," the Lieutenant interrupted. "Take my Humvee in. I'll finish your shift."

"No fuckin' way," Jeff blurted before regaining his professional composure. "Sir—I mean, no fuckin' way, sir," he stammered. The officer laughed.

"It's already done—get outta here. By the way, it was your wife who made the coffee. She figured it might get you home for an hour or so tonight—remind you of home instead of that nasty shit we pour in the ops shack!"

"You sure sir?" Jeff delayed.

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't have offered. Get your ass out of here before I decide I'm too tired!" Toby joked. "And get yourself some sleep for God's sake—you're worthless to me if you're walking around like one of those 'things' out there."

Jeff clasped a massive hand on the officer's shoulder. "Thanks sir, I'll see you after the morning update."

"Or tomorrow afternoon—I don't care-just get some rest," the Lieutenant ordered. As the burly vehicle roared to life and clanked off down the uneven dirt road, Toby raised his NVGs again to his face as he swirled a fresh sip of coffee across his tongue. He rolled the hot liquid around his mouth and tried to draw the aroma from his taste buds to his nose _. Just like downrange_ , he thought _. Coffee makes_ _everything tolerable._ He laughed to himself silently, thinking _if we lose the coffee, we lose the war._ An almost imperceptible reflection from just over the razor wire-topped wall across from the base caught his attention. _Was that someone looking at him with NVGs? A handheld telescope?_ His heart suddenly racing, he blinked and sat forward, staring through the green-tinted image projected inside of the two tubes he held before his eyes. As quickly as the vision had caught his attention, it vanished, and he found himself looking at what he could only believe was starlight reflecting on a large blade of the concertina wire in front of a hedge that capped the wall. _Damn it, I need to find time to get myself some sleep too_ , he thought as he pulled the remains of the mug in one large gulp. _Stay awake,_ he pleaded with himself.

* * *

Colonel Ferrer looked up from his notes and considered the precipitous nature of the situation. Almost forty percent of the base forces had already deserted—he'd accepted this as a natural degradation under the circumstances; that number would have been much higher had he not opened the installation to all families a week earlier. _The deserters have more outside the walls than inside_ , he pondered. Considering the unparalleled panic that had swept the population, he considered himself fortunate to have lost less than half of the uniformed members under his command. He silently pondered the situation at hand. Though he stared unwaveringly at the notes on the projection screen, his mind was clearly elsewhere, deep in thought and mentally reviewing command courses of action.

The absence of words from their commander in the face of seemingly devastating updates failed to trigger any semblance of panic or doubt in the gathered battle-staff. Ferrer was well-known for collecting as much information as possible before rendering decisions, though he had also proven himself to be capable of lightning-fast direction in combat. After so many years of continuous warfare, too many senior leaders somehow managed to avoid combat deployments and lacked the critical experience wrought with a baptism by fire. Many considered the absent commander, Colonel Hahnfeld, just such a paper-tiger—a hollow shell of a uniform worn by an officer driven more by political ambition than military competence.

"Ferret" Ferrer was of cut from a different cloth. One of the few officers with experience in both major combat operations as well as the continued asymmetric counter-insurgency campaigns, his subordinates respected his cool, quiet demeanor buttressed by an impressive combat record. After a deep, contemplative breath with his eyes turned toward the ceiling, he forcefully exhaled, as if just such an action might sweep away the bleakness surrounding them. He motioned for the next slide, and the civil engineering squadron commander began rattling off current stockpiles of food, ammunition, water, and fuel.

"Sir, our current stockpiles are still in the green—showing just under eighty-five percent total; we've got approximately five percent of supplies forward to their distribution points on base, and we haven't had any issues with the base population in terms of disturbances. Twenty-five percent of food and water remains in the secondary distribution warehouses and can be on-hand within an hour. Fifty percent is in storage, and twenty percent in reserve."

 _In reserve._ Lieutenant Colonel Alvarado had chosen his words carefully. A week earlier, one of the A-10 squadron commanders had floated the idea at the wing update briefing of establishing fallback contingency positions. That had been one of the last update briefing that their now-missing Wing Commander had attended. Colonel Ferrer couldn't help but recall the nature of the conversation and planning that had occurred in that moment.

"Absolutely not," Colonel Hahnfeld had sputtered. "That's a waste of manpower and resources. I want our food and water easily accessible to the base population."

"With all due respect sir, the situation is not getting better, and I strongly recommend we work contingency options—" the younger commander was brusquely cut off again as the senior officer leapt to his feet and pointed a thin finger in his direction.

"My decision is final! Keep the supplies as they are, where they are!" Colonel Hahnfeld never reacted well to any subordinate challenging his decisions, and even discussions that others felt highlighted options or alternative concerns were perceived by their commander as attacks on his authority.

 _He's got his fucking head in the sand_ , thought Lieutenant Colonel Keith Laubacher as he wondered how he might convince his boss on what a large group of other officers had realized needed to take place. _He refuses to acknowledge what's actually going on._

"I don't want to hear about this again," Hahnfeld spat as he sank back into his chair. "Next slide!" he ordered as he turned his gaze back to the large screen at the front of the room.

As the meeting concluded, Keith quickly moved towards the exit, desiring to return as quickly as possible to the comfortable surroundings within the reserve squadron he commanded. Before he could get more than a few steps through the horde trying to similarly escape, a rough voice whispered in his ear, "Downstairs, in the old finance office, ten minutes." He turned to identify the speaker, but only saw the backs of several officers moving quickly away. As much as he wanted to depart the madness of the headquarters building, the sudden offer ensnared his complete curiosity, and he turned instead to burn time in the restroom while the combat staff cleared out. He splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. _What the hell is going on here_ , he wondered for what seemed like the millionth time. _What's more insane? The madness outside the gates or what's brewing in here?_ Holding his own gaze, he worked up the courage to investigate the offer.

Finding the hallways empty, he silently carried himself away from the wing conference room and down the narrow staircase. Instead of pushing through the glass doors towards the parking lot, he apprehensively pushed on the handle of the shuttered door on the ground level and was shocked to find it unlocked. Before he could push the door more than a couple of inches, a hushed voice commanded, "Get your ass in here before someone sees you, jackass." He practically fell into the room, and someone slammed the door shut behind him.

He struggled to focus his eyes in the dim light, but quickly recognized the figure who had pulled him into the room. Lieutenant Colonel Jim "Jimbo" Evens commanded one of the two active duty fighter squadrons and had known Keith for nearly a decade when the two had flown together as young captains in Korea. He smiled in recognition of his friend, who returned the gesture as he packed a healthy wad of Copenhagen into his lower lip. A quiet but sturdy voice from behind them cracked the atmosphere again. "Oh hell no, you little shit—you better have a pinch for me if you're gonna feed your own goddamned mouth!" Without turning, Keith now realized that the original command, and these following exclamation, belonged to Colonel Ferrer, and he was only mildly surprised to see that it was him who had arranged this off-the-books meeting. He slammed an oversized bunch of chew into his own mouth and tossed the can back to Jimbo with a wink. "Take care of your elders first next time!" he joked.

Keith slid deeper into the room. As his eyes adjusted further to the darkness, he noticed a collection of other individuals slinking silently in the shadows. Colonel Ferrer spit into a plastic bottle before announcing, "Alright gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, looks like we're all here." His words hung heavy in the room. "This meeting never happened, understand?" Even in the dim light, no one missed the collective nodding of every head present. "Good. Now, Chalice, what you brought up in there is worth discussing," he began, referring to Keith by the tactical nickname preferred amongst the gathered fighter pilots. "I agree that we need contingencies, and all of you in this room have expressed similar ideas offline. Everyone on board with that idea?" Again, collective nodding. He turned towards Ruben Alvarado. "Can you move enough supplies in reserve to a secure location?"

Ruben nodded. "Absolutely sir. But to where? The flightline is secure, but not a great fallback location. And every other open bay on base that's not taken up by cots is already in use."

"What about the Boneyard?" Keith offered. He immediately sensed an initial disagreement and continued with the idea that had brewed in his own mind for a few days. The Boneyard was the nickname given to the massive aircraft storage facility that encompassed nearly three thousand acres housing over four thousand aircraft in the Arizona desert ringing more than half of the massive airbase. "Before we disregard that, think about it. If we're falling back, for whatever reason, why would anyone, or anything, search the Boneyard? There's nothing there of value. We could position the reserves in the C-5s, which would also give us a place to stay in their upstairs compartments while we waited it out." The massive C-5 transport plane was the largest cargo aircraft in the Air Force inventory, and one of the largest aircraft in the world. In addition to an enormous belly capable of transporting multiple main battle tanks or even other airplanes, the plane had a split interior with a troop-transport room in the aircraft's top section.

Colonel Ferrer nodded slowly. "Great idea. But how are we going to get the jets opened up? There's no power available to make the cargo doors operational in those retired airframes," he mused.

"My guys can take care of that, sir," offered a voice from the back of the room. Major Henry Lee, the director of operations for the detachment of smaller cargo aircraft that operated from the base, stepped forward. "So long as you don't ask how they do it, our load-masters and maintainers can get those doors operational for what we need without power." He turned his eyes up towards the vice commander as he continued, "They won't work correctly afterwards, but we can make it happen. So long as no one asks too many questions."

Colonel Ferrer laughed to himself and scratched his stubbly chin in consideration. "Buddy, I don't think anyone is going to come looking for those planes ever again. You have my authority to make it happen—listen carefully— _whatever it takes_! How long are we talking here?"

After a hushed round of audible calculations amongst the assembled officers, Ruben stood and reported that they would everything complete and in-place within five days.

"Make it happen," Colonel Ferrer commanded. "I'll come up with a way for you to brief me personally on the status. Until then, we tell Hahnfeld what he wants to hear. I'll take care of the rest. You all report to me, and me alone on this issue."

A quick succession of two distinct raps at the conference room door silenced the room and snapped Colonel Ferrer from his recollections. The battle staff received two critical updates per twelve-hour shift, and interruptions outside of life-and-death situations were strictly forbidden. Everyone present in the room knew what importance the information on the other side of the door represented, and they involuntarily found themselves holding their breath. The Wing Command Chief, a stocky, bald non-commissioned officer whose career had been chiseled into the deep lines of his face, a para-rescueman by trade, took the commander's acknowledgement, and unlocked the massive steel door. A haggard, panting Lieutenant Colonel burst into the room, clearly losing in the attempt to regain his breath after sprinting from the command post two-blocks away. He thrust a stack of papers shrouded beneath a red cardstock cover emblazoned with the TOP SECRET stamp towards the commander. Colonel Ferrer reached for the documents while his eyes locked with the messenger in the attempt to discern any hint as to the message's contents.

"From NORAD directly, sir," the officer stammered. The command post entrusted younger officers or senior NCOs to deliver routine messages to their leadership; the fact that the command post chief himself had sprinted to convey this particular dispatch bore an ominous overtone. NORAD stood for North American Aerospace Defense Command, or the higher headquarters that oversaw all operations in the American hemisphere, commanding the Northern Command and Twelfth Air Forces, the successive parent organizations above the 355th Fighter Wing in Tucson. Colonel Ferrer cast the cover sheet aside, hoping against hope for a positive message outlining the endgame of their current dilemma. The words across the top of the first page shattered those hopes.

OPERATION SCORCHED EARTH.

Few of the officers and staff gathered in that conference room had witnessed their leader under combat conditions. His reputation for decisive action was crafted of legends and third-person war stories. Only a couple of pilots had been in Kuwait with him during the second Iraq war that could bear witness to the incredible speed and precision with which he seemed to be able to accurately analyze and predict through the unimaginable fog and friction of an incredibly dynamic campaign. Many of the younger airmen only knew the soft-spoken officer more disposed to careful contemplation and the advice that decisions in peacetime could be slept-upon and digested over twelve hours. They knew the officer who always had an anecdote or comparison for many of the situations they found themselves in, and most of them struggled to transpose the gray-haired, bespectacled man with the abject warrior that others described. Beneath the deafening silence that had exploded in the room, none would struggle to reconcile those images as Michael Ferrer cleared his throat, and whispered, "All non-combat organizations are dismissed. All units will immediately assume force protection condition delta."

 _Force protection condition delta: an attack is taking place, or has already occurred in the immediate area_.

The departure of non-combatant agencies afforded Colonel Ferrer the time to purposefully digest the message in his hands. The addressee list at the top of the page informed him that every operational commander across the country held the same set of instructions. His heart began racing as each succeeding paragraph fell before his rapidly scanning eyes. He hoped that, somehow, the message would conclude with the phrase "exercise exercise exercise" and he could refocus solely on the needs within the base perimeter. The presence of an authentication statement, already validated by the battle staff, shattered that aspiration. Michael Ferrer looked around the room slowly, holding the gaze of each remaining commander for a moment before speaking in a voice that he hoped maintained a semblance of composure.

"Team, we have been given an order that I'm sure none of us is prepared to receive." Silence enveloped the room as every man held his breath against the coming command. He stood and read directly from the paper, "NORAD, on orders from the Pentagon, directs the massive aerial bombardment of affected or overrun urban areas to eradicate this unknown virus that has caused the apparent reanimation of the recently deceased." The gasp by every officer in the room spread rapidly and morphed immediately into barely muffled conversations and exclamations. Colonel Ferrer held up his right hand to interrupt the reaction as he continued reading directly from the order. "As the source and susceptibility of this condition remains unknown, the only acceptable course of action to ensure the continued viability of the nation lies with the obliteration of the infected subjects by way of direct incineration…" his voice trailed involuntarily as a vision of a city-scape engulfed in flames crossed before his eyes. The room exploded in a cacophony of voices suddenly attempting to understand what had just been ordered. Individual shouts punctuated the air, growing louder as each voice struggled to be heard above the erupting din. Colonel Ferrer rose from his seat and silenced the room. "ENOUGH!" The startled officers looked at him with wide eyes and expectant gazes. He clasped his arms across his chest and lowered his chin in deep contemplation. "Just a goddamned minute, now." He stepped off slowly and began walking the length of the long conference table.

"Firebomb the city?" blurted Keith Laubacher, unable to restrain himself any longer. His hands had involuntarily balled into fists squeezed so tightly that the knuckles had already gone white. "They tried that in New York and it didn't work! There are still civilians out there!" His face began to redden with a sudden and inconsolable rage against the idea. Beside him, Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Treve remained seated, his hands calmly folded in his lap.

"The city was cleared days ago, Keith," Anthony coldly commented…

"We don't know that it was done to one-hundred percent!"

"The order was given. Everyone had a chance to move to the safe zones."

"And if they didn't? They get firebombed?!" Keith spat.

"They had the opportunity," Anthony retorted.

An uncomfortable air fell across the assembled officers, many of whom hung their heads in a quiet desperation tinged with a palpable shame. _How had it come to this so quickly?_ When the silence persisted, Laubacher continued, almost exasperatedly, "Sir! We're not honestly considering this, are we?"

"We've been given an order," Treve offered cooly, drawing a fire-laden glare from his fellow commander. Treve kept his eyes squarely on the Vice Wing Commander seated at the head of the table and deliberately ignored the seething stare beside him. "I don't know if I speak for myself or anyone else in the room sir, but we're not talking about a conventional situation anymore. This is survival. Not survival of certain groups, but the nation. Maybe the species. If fire is the only way to kill it and ensure the race goes on, then fire it is."

"Survival? Whose survival? You ever killed civilians in battle? Let me tell you something-"

"ENOUGH I SAID!" boomed Colonel Ferrer as he slammed his fists into the conference table hard enough to throw every cup on top of it inches into the air. "Goddamn it, you're all officers—act like it!" Keith's eyes widened in near horror but he kept his mouth shut. His fists clenched tighter and he felt his entire body trembling. Colonel Ferrer walked slowly back to the head of the room. When he turned to face his officers, an incredible strain pulled at his eyes, and an unmistakeable sadness permeated every expression. His voice cracked as he spoke, suddenly softly. "I understand what I'm about to order you to do may go against everything you know as an American warrior. And as a human being. I don't know what this thing is that we're up against, but I know that humanity has never faced anything of this nature, and to this extent, in the history of the world. Keith, I know where you're coming from, brother. But we have been given an order. Under normal circumstances, we could debate the lawfulness of this directive. I'm not sure that we have that luxury anymore." He paused and took the time to look each officer in eyes.

"Make no mistake, men. History will judge each of us on what we do next." Unable to hide his emotions, a single tear fell from his eye. "I will not hold it against any officer who refuses this order. There will be no retribution. Commanders, get back to your units and identify your flight leads for this mission. Report back here in one hour with your primary flyers; we'll go over the mission assignments and then break up for individual flight briefings, at which time you can brief your units and add flyers as you're able. I don't expect that you'll have the one-hundred percent solution right now, but what are your gut feelings on who your pilots will be?" Brutus?" he asked, looking at the operational squadron commander.

Lieutenant Colonel Treve stammered, "I, uh, I'm not sure sir. I need to, um, get back to the squadron and see who's on shift." Colonel Ferrer nodded slowly and turned to look at Keith Laubacher, who returned his steely gaze with a sudden resolve.

"I'll be leading our first four-ship, sir—assuming we can put that many up. I can't guarantee what I can give you, but I'll be out front," he stated, happily sounding far more confident than he felt inside. Ferret nodded again before shifting his gaze. Jimbo Evens, taking the immediate cue from his friend, stood and resolutely affirmed that he, too, would lead the first formation from his unit. Breathing an inaudible sigh of relief from hearing his friend's support, Keith looked over to see if Treve would also step forward to lead, but the short, beady-eyed man only feigned interest in his notes as he strained to ignore the stares assaulting from three directions. _Typical_ , Keith thought disgustedly.

Colonel Ferrer stood before them, his arms again folded before him, and his chin digging into his chest. Satisfied with his own contemplations, he looked up and nodded at his squadron commanders again. "Alright then. Chalice, you'll be the second formation out the door, Jimbo you're third and Brutus, your pilots will pull up the last group." Keith looked at him cockeyed, not quite sure he had heard the commander correctly.

"Sir, you said I was second—who's first out the 'chute?"

"I am," he replied tersely. "You got a problem with that shit-bird?"

"No sir."

"Good, goddamn it. Now get back to your units and find me at least one wingman who's worth their shit and report back here with your pilots in an hour. " Before anyone could place a breath into a single word, the Colonel was gone. Keith Laubacher clutched the handrests of his chair in a death grip.

He wondered if his shaking legs would support him long enough to make the trek back to his squadron building.


	2. Chapter 2: Baptism By Fire

**Chapter 2: Baptism by Fire**

Major Brian Rawlins shuffled down the crowded hallway under the silent watch of framed black and white photographs—seventy years of squadron history and heritage—but thought little of the wistful gazes that spanned the decades as he pushed through the back door and towards the tent-city erected in the parking lot. One final task remained before he could close out another long day and take his own turn in line for the one shower he was authorized every three days. The hushed giggling of high-pitched voices caught his ears even before he pushed through the heavy fabric door. Four sets of eyes immediately shot in his direction as every voice silenced. The children tried to contain their nervous laughter in the presence of an adult, but failed miserably. Along one wall of the tent, the lone teenaged boy shook his head and shot his father an "I tried" glance before rolling over into his own cot. The little girl with the scraggly brown curls looked up at him with a mischievous grin as she plopped back beneath the cover of her sleeping bag and proceeded to bellow forth a series of deep snores.

"You weren't sleeping, princess. You can't fool your daddy," Brian whispered, drawing another round of giggles from within the brightly colored fabric. "Besides, it isn't bedtime until we read a story-book." The words were met with a hurried cast-aside of her sleeping bag, and the wide grin populated by teeth that were too big for the small face glowed up at him. As he pulled the well-worn paperback from the leg pocket of his flight suit, he smiled as he saw her friend in the next cot over pull closer to the two of them. Platinum-blonde curls framed a smiling face crisscrossed by dirt. Smiling sadly, Brian reached beneath the cots and pulled a few wet-wipes from the plastic sheath and handed one to each child. "Wash up ladies," he whispered. Water rationing affected everyone, but it always troubled him to see the little ones covered in grime. As the giggling girls scrubbed the dirt from their round faces, he reached under the cot again and pulled up his daughter's toothpaste spit-bottle and happily observed that fresh toothpaste-spittle coated the top neck of the bottle. Without excess water, the children would brush their teeth and spit into used water bottles instead of sinks. _At least it's easy to see she's keeping up with it,_ he thought. He turned back to two outstretched hands offering streaked wipes and even wider grins. The little blonde girl settled back into her own sleeping back as Brian opened the book to the first page.

Before he could start reading, she whispered, "Where's my daddy, mister Brian?" He patted the side of her cot and replied as soothingly as possible.

"Your daddy is out on the flight line, sweetheart. He's keeping our airplanes good and ready to fly." Aubrey Lynn's father was Brian's crew chief—the enlisted airman responsible for the general upkeep of the A-10 he was assigned to as a pilot. Pilots always looked forward to the day that their names emblazoned the side of a fighter aircraft, but the crew chiefs who bent the wrenches and broke their backs maintaining those birds were the real "owners" of each particular plane. As they currently worked opposite shifts, each man offered to keep an eye on the other's children. Shortly after Colonel Hahnfeld had gone missing, the vice commander had opened the base to all family members in the attempt to stave off the impending desertions that had already begun to infect the base population. Uncertainty about the future and their families had simply grown too far out of control for individuals, who dropped their duties and raced for those they held dearest.

Brian began reading aloud from the wrinkled pages, and noticed immediately that both Aubrey and Amelia's mouths moved in perfect sync with his words—with only a scant few children's books available, they had heard this story about every other night for the last week. Turning a page, he saw Amelia's mouth slow as her eyes began to well. He swept a lock of hair away from her eyes and drew his thumb to catch the falling tear.

"I miss mommy," she sniffled. Brian immediately felt her words deep in his heart, and saw that Trevor, too, had stopped reading and looked at him expectantly. Had he heard anything? Brian looked away from his son and stared hard into his daughter's eyes.

"Mommy's going to be fine," he lied with as much confidence as he could muster in the moment. "She's at the hospital where they can take care of her and make sure she doesn't get sick."

"Sick like the people we saw?"

"That's right, angel."

"Why did that man bite her?" she whined. The child asked that same question every night, and every time Brian answered with the same lack of understanding that he wished he could hide.

"I don't know, sweet heart. Maybe he was scared too," he whispered. Aubrey Lynn sat up in her cot and reached for Amelia's hand.

"My mommy's gone too," she informed her friend. "She left to live in Colo-wado." Her parents had divorced a year earlier, and Allen often brought the child to the squadron building when he worked late hours on the flight line. Brian abruptly changed the subject and reached to tickle both children, drawing an immediate barrage of genuine giggles. Seeing the smiles again, he pulled the sleeping bags up to their chins.

"Time for sweet dreams little ones. Time to think of teddy bears and fluffy white unicorns dancing on big puffy clouds." He smiled at Aubrey Lynn, then ran his finger down the side of Amelia's face. "Goodnight angel. Daddy's right in the next room, and Trevor will be here with you." Once her little eyes slipped behind their lids, he re-tucked the sleeping bag around her and moved to leave the tent. Trevor followed silently back to the squadron building and his father's office.

"Dad, do you really think mom's okay?" The worry in his voice was evident. Even at sixteen, he couldn't mask his fears and emotions.

"I don't know, son. She's at the only place that can help her right now—we have to have faith that she's where she needs to be."

"When can we go see her?"

"I don't know—not anytime soon. The roads are closed to all traffic and we're staying here until things clear up."

"Do you think they're going to clear up?" he asked apprehensively.

"I don't know, son. I just don't know," Brian repeated. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Stay with your sister and the little ones. I've got a few more things to take care of and I'll be out there in a couple of hours. We'll see what tomorrow brings."

 _If there is a tomorrow_ , Trevor thought as he shuffled back into the darkness.

* * *

 _Nineteen pilots_ , observed Colonel Ferrer. _Twenty with myself_. Of the more than a hundred and twenty-some pilots assigned to the wing, twenty stepped forward to employ weapons on the city they called home. With the squadrons already divided into two shifts, plus the attrition suffered from desertion, he calculated that just about a third of what they could have put into the air arrived to receive their orders. _All things being equal, I guess that's about right_. The now-absent Wing Commander would have seethed with anger at such a sight—in an hour of need, few had stepped up. Mike Ferrer's nature decried this anger, and understood that they now found themselves in one of those moments that, up until this point, had only ever existed in the hypothetical academic sessions of either philosophy courses or raucous barroom banter. He looked at the two squadron commanders taking their seats and felt a surge of pride roll down his spine. _Those men know what it means to lead—they won't allow their pilots to do something that they themselves weren't willing to do… no matter how distasteful or agonizing_. In a moment of questionable reckoning and dire consequences, they loaded themselves into the breach first. Looking to the third squadron's formation, he recognized some of the youngest members of the unit and felt a sudden sadness. _First time droppin' for real, and they're doing it on their own city…_ he tried to reason. But the attempt to rectify his sadness only masked the true source—recognizing that a young man for whom he'd had so much pride and in whom he saw such leadership potential, had turned away from the test when it had finally come his way. Colonel Ferrer couldn't help but notice that the young pilot's hands shook conspicuously.

A sudden shuffling announced the arrival of another group of pilots, all of whom wore deep circles beneath their eyes—the hallmark badges that accompanied those confined to the mission planning cell responsible for crafting the details behind their assignments. The weapons and tactics chief led the new delegation into the room and thrust a series of papers at the assembled pilots. He spoke curtly as he explained the weapons delivery profiles they would be expected to execute.

"These are your new mils," he shot at them, referring to the delivery computations that defined how a pilot aimed and released a weapon. Upon reading the titles of the deliveries, each head snapped up as jaws dropped open.

"Napalm?" one of the young pilots exclaimed.

"I didn't think we had that in the inventory anymore," another offered.

"There are a lot of weapons in the inventory that we don't know about until we need to know about them," the chief blurted, annoyed.

"Alright, alright," Colonel Ferrer started. "Let's get down to the brass tacks. We don't have a lot of time and I want you to have enough time to talk about this back in your squadrons before we launch. We're only getting one shot at this." He nodded back to the tactics chief, who began explaining.

"Your individual mission planning cells will have this data loaded for you by the time you get back, but here's what you need to know about these deliveries. The target coordinates have been pre-selected, and are loaded for each squadron by priority. So, Colonel Ferrer, your primary targets are loaded in steerpoints one through ten. Chalice, those same points are your numbers eleven through twenty, and so on down the line so that we can clean-up any alibis left by previous formations. Each jet will be loaded with ten cans and you'll release four each on your first two passes, then two on the last pass. Your deliveries will be from a level release to get the fuel to spread as far as possible, and you'll need to be as fast as you can. So, we'll set up a hold at ten thousand feet, ten miles west of the targets. Ramp down hill, with at least two miles between each jet, level off at one thousand A-G-L with max power. We'll release in C-C-R-P and you'll execute a climbing safe escape maneuver to clear the area. Once the first pass goes down, I don't see N-V-Gs being much use, but see what you get. The release altitude will keep you clear of all obstacles across the city, so take them off if they gain-down too much. Each formation has ten minutes to hit their targets, with ten minutes between the formations in case you have alibis. Gas will be no factor with landing right back here." He looked up from his notes finally and surveyed the room. "Any questions?" Colonel Ferrer scribbled a few notes on his pages and stood, clamping a large hand on the younger officer's shoulder.

"Thanks, buddy." He faced the group again. "Guys, I'm not going to re-iterate what we talked about earlier, even though I'd like to. I think I'd be really just trying to convince myself of what we're about to do." He paused. "Look, there's twenty of us in this room. I thank each and every one of you for stepping up, but every time we take a step forward, the burden gets a little worse. So I'm not going to be counting how many jets actually take off tonight. I'm not trying to talk you out of this, but I want you to know that I firmly believe that each of us has to answer to our own conscious now, and for every day that follows. I advise each and every one of you to make peace with whatever god you believe in and make damned sure that when you strap on your gear, you do so with a clear sense of what you're doing. I sure as hell will. I know you will too." Looking each of the nineteen pilots and the four planners directly, individually, he continued slowly. "Now, I'm gonna take a knee over in that corner and pray. Any of you want to join me, you're more than welcome. Any of you who don't want to, that's fine too- this is as private a matter as it gets. I'll see you on the line." He turned and walked to the corner silently, then bent slowly on knees that groaned and complained as he sank onto them.

All twenty-three officers in attendance followed in absolute stillness.

* * *

Manny Villalobos huddled closer into the black leather vest worn by his older brother. The .45 caliber handgun felt increasingly heavy in his hands, and he did his best to keep his eyes to the sides and back, just as his brother had ordered. He tried to catch a glimpse of the scene ahead of them, but every move towards their front brought a swift rebuke from his sibling. As they paused and crouched low, his thoughts returned to the moment, a week earlier, when his brother had conceived this notion…

The room had been dark that night, and every night once the power cut out for good. A handful of small candles flickered weakly but seemed to cast more shadows than illumination in the crowded room. Where previous occupants had passed stories and shared smiles, now the huddled mass of men slowly moved a dingy tequila bottle amongst themselves. They spoke in hushed tones, hiding their words amidst the muffled sobbing emanating from the bedroom beside them. At the center of the room, closest to the fading candles, a muscular young man in a sleeveless black shirt finished scribbling his sketches on a crumbled scrap of paper and took a long drag from the brown cigarillo hanging beneath a thick black mustache that bracketed his mouth. Satisfied with his notes, he slowly looked around the room from beneath a black bandana pulled down to his eyebrows.

"Anybody else tired of living in this shithole?" he asked softly, his words laced with aggression. "Anybody else tired of being told where we can go? What we can do? Anybody else tired of being kept behind walls?" The anger laced in his words matched the seething in the stares of the gathered men. Miguel Villalobos, a man referred to within the group as El Lobo, stood and dropped his cigarillo into the clay ashtray on the flimsy cardtable and began circling the outside of the group as he continued. "This keeping us cooped up is over, vatos."

An older man, perched in a patched loveseat across the room, leaned forward with his hands clasped beneath his chin. "What would you do, Miguel?" he questioned in soft tones. Miguel winced unnoticeably at the use of his formal name; he preferred to go by the moniker given to him by his surrogate family from the streets. The Fourth Avenue Dons called him El Lobo, and he usually considered any who refused to do so an outsider—an untrustworthy, suspicious outsider. But this man, his uncle, though he had refused to follow the Dons, remained wise and deliberate in his calculations of difficult situations.

"We need to get into the airbase," Miguel offered.

"The base?" his uncle retorted incredulously. "You've seen the defenses, yes? You've seen the weapons that they have?" He couldn't believe what his brash nephew had suggested. He knew that Miguel often succumbed to his passions, but this idea… He shook his head slowly and collapsed back into the worn seat.

"They have power," Miguel began, speaking to the assembled Dons now, trying to persuade them to his logic. "Have you not noticed that the lights stay on over there at night?"

"So, they have lights. Probably running water too," considered Javier, long considered Miguel's right-hand man. Some even jokingly referred to him as El Lobito. "But do we need these things? It's not like they're going to throw open the gates and invite us in for dinner." He looked up from the cardtable and captured El Lobo's gaze directly. "What you're suggesting—this is a fight you're asking for."

"Si," came the simple reply.

"You want to fight your way into a military base, just for electricity and maybe a shower?"

Miguel continued his slow circumnavigation of the group, deliberately beginning his walk away from his uncle's seat. "Listen closely amigos. The old ways are over." He pulled a handful of dollar bills from his pocket and set them alight with the weak flame of the dying candle. "Worthless ahora." He cracked a grin at the shock he had inspired with his demonstration. "The currency of this new world will be water. Food. Gasoline." He paused and looked each man in the eye. "And of course, drugas." A few eyes widened at the thought. "And, mis amigos. They have all of that behind those walls." The silence hung thick in the room. The sobs of the children next door had faded to occasional whimpers that echoed softly in the flickering light. The shadows seemed emboldened by the mood quickly spreading throughout the room; fear… anxiety… excitement.

"We can get all that from the Walmart or CVS up the street," a faceless voice suggested from the shadows. "And we won't have to fight our way in."

Miguel looked at the ceiling and nodded. "Si, verdad. But you will have to fight your way through los muertos. And you'd have to go a lot further."

"Si, pero los muertos won't shoot back," the voice replied. "Besides, where are you going to get the guns?"

"Vato," Miguel laughed, "I've been hiding weapons from the police my whole life. You think these weekend warriors keeping us behind their barbed wire found my arsenal?"

"What about the soldiers? We have to get out of the barrio first," Javier pondered.

A new voice sprang from the doorway.

"They're gone," the figure in the entrance called with no attempt to muffle his voice in the darkness. As all eyes turned in his direction, he strode slowly to the illuminated circle. The dim light leapt across his camouflage utility uniform, and he tossed his issued hat onto the table. The nametape above his left breast proclaimed Army National Guard. "The last patrol left about a half hour ago." He reached for the half-exhausted pack of cigarillos as he continued. "They left the main gate unlocked." A shocked gasp cracked across the room. "Apparently, it's happening all across the country. They don't want to watch over us when they can try to save their own familia."

"We still can't get through that gate—I don't care how many guns you've got, Lobo," argued another faceless voice.

Miguel stopped walking and looked out of the picture window, staring at the hapless refugee settlement that had once been a working-class neighborhood. "The entire world is lost to fear and panic, amigos. I think that will work to our advantage just fine. _That_ will be the weapon that breaks through their walls and sets us up to take over this new world." He turned to look at the lone soldier. "Lock the gates. Make it look like the soldados are still here. Start a rumor that the Air Force is conducting evacuation flights from the base. It won't take long to stir them up. Their hope will become the rampage we need to get through those walls."

Manny shivered back to the present from beneath the hot summer night. The dim lights from the airbase twinkled wearily ahead of them, and he tightened his grip on his brother's side. "Hang on, little brother. We're about to light this candle."

* * *

 _Five minutes was too damned short for a shower_ , Brian thought as he reluctantly cut off the warm water that had seemed to breathe life directly back into his weary soul. He reached for his ratty old towel—the same one that he'd carried on every overseas deployment, and had only begun to wipe the water from his body when the commotion burst into the squadron locker room. He immediately recognized the brash and excited voice of Major Brady Farrell, a brusque young aviator whose blonde hair and surfer-infused accent had earned him the callsign "Dude."

"Drop yer cock bro! Boss wants us all in the vault in five minutes. And oh yeah, we're in delta, so put yer uniform back on and grab your battle rattle!" he called as he ripped back the shower curtain.

"Fuck, man, I just got off shift," Brian complained.

"Dude, something big's about to go down. Bosses are pinging like you read about—hurry up!" Brady shouted. "Nice ass, by the way." As his friend scampered away, Brian sighed disappointedly— _a long day just started getting even longer_ … He finished toweling off and grabbed his socks. _Meant to wash those today…_ he contemplated sourly. _Guess they'll do for another twelve hours or so if I need 'em._ He shook a couple of puffs of anti-fungal medicated powder into them before squeezing them back over his damp feet. Sliding back into his slightly dingy-smelling flight suit, he thought to himself, _alright… let's see how the world managed to implode on itself in the last thirty minutes…_

Major Brian "Pabst" Rawlins was on the last legs of his Air Force career. He'd watched, disappointedly, as his peers had advanced to Lieutenant Colonel while his own name never appeared on the promotion lists. With more than eighteen years of service in his record, he had managed to garner an assignment with the reserve squadron at Davis Monthan to finish out his service. Though he loved flying and instructing, his ego carried a significant wound that refused to heal, and he debated continuing service with the reserves once his twenty years expired. As an unpromoted Major, the active duty would force him to retire from their ranks, and the realization that officers for whom he retained little respect continued to climb the ladder repulsed him from the occupation that he had loved for so long.

The usual banter amongst fighter pilots caught his ear as stepped into the mission planning cell deep in the heart of the classified section of the squadron commonly referred to as "the vault." While some of the pilots joked half-heartedly, some anxiously, he noticed that the commander stood uncharacteristically with his back towards his pilots, hunched over a series of crumpled papers. Brian had served with him several times as their careers crossed paths, but Keith Laubacher had left active duty early to join the reserves. As Brian's career stalled, his old friend had been all-too-happy to pick him up for an active-duty slot in his reserve squadron. The easy smile that normally pinched the corner of Keith Laubacher's face was replaced with what Brian could only identify as a profound sadness and a focus that seemed to ensnare his very heart and soul in the grimace he wore. Brian's heart sank—such an expression could only mean that the worst had occurred amongst a member of the unit. He slid into an open seat at the rear of the room and waited for the devastating meeting to begin. The squadron's Director of Operations, another peer from an active duty squadron so many years ago, silently poked his finger at the air as he counted the number of pilots gathering around the table. Satisfied with his count, he leaned towards the commander and whispered, "They're all here, boss." Keith nodded silently and turned slowly. Brian noticed his bloodshot eyes that belied his current composure.

"Men," he began in a voice that cracked slightly, "I never thought I would give you an order like I'm about to give tonight. You all know what's going on outside the gates—you've seen the news and we have tried to give you the most current updates as we received them. Our leadership believes that the only way to eradicate this disease is via fire." He paused. Like every briefing before this one tonight, he could feel the air sucked from the room as every pilot suddenly understood what was about to be asked of them. "We have been tasked, along with every other combat-capable unit across the country," he halted, seemingly unable to continue. His mouth moved slowly as it formed silent words unable to find a voice. He drew a slow, deep breath, and lifted his eyes away from the expectant and anxious gazes of his comrades. Only once he broke away from their stares did he find himself able to allow the words to drip from his mouth again. "… to firebomb the urban areas of our cities that have been overrun by the re-animated bodies of the recently deceased." Using the identical phrases from news broadcasts and the worn tasking message in his hands seemed to ease the logjam in his throat. He wanted to explain the debates and the dissent—to place words to the chaos that had exploded within the wing briefing rooms… he searched for the proper descriptions of emotions that continued to pull his soul in a hundred directions, but found only silence.

He crumbled the tasking order and abandoned his attempts to project the "right" or "approved" vestige of a commander, and fell into the realm of familiarity that his pilots had come to expect of their leader. "Guys, I don't know what's going to happen. I don't agree with this order, but I won't ask a single one of you to execute something that I'm unwilling to do. So I'm out front." He paused, crossed his arms, and looked down at the planning table before him. "We've dealt with civilian casualties before. We've been through the investigations downrange, and some of us carry those ghosts with us every day. I can't tell you that the areas where our bombs are going to fall are one-hundred percent guaranteed to be clear of survivors who failed to get to the refugee centers. I can't tell you that. I wish I could—I'd lie to you if I thought this was the right thing to do, but I don't, and so I won't."

"Can we refuse the order?" Captain Richard Kemp, in his distinctively deep southern drawl, asked softly from the opposite corner of the room.

"Yes you can," Keith replied. "Colonel Ferrer has made it very clear that there will be no repercussions for anyone refusing to accept this tasking." He began pacing slowly at the head of the table, his eyes still cast down towards his crossed arms. "Before we go down that rabbit hole, let's get the task at hand—night shifters—you're up to fly. The primary four-ship formation has already been decided. We can generate more aircraft if any of you volunteer. Day shifters—be prepared to execute our fallback plan. I want all the families moved into the building—it's going to suck, I get it. Be ready to move to the fallback positions at a moment's notice. Look, I don't know what's going to happen when we start dropping bombs on our own damned city, but I don't expect it to be good, and we need to make sure that we're ready for the worst."

"I'm with you, boss. I'll fly," Brian breathed. Keith looked at him and shook his head sadly.

"No, you're a day-walker and you just got off shift. You're not flying." Before Brian could voice his protest, Keith continued. "You're in charge of the fallback plan. I'm entrusting our families to you." Brian hung his head in realization, accepting his tasking without relishing the assignment.

David Miller lifted his large frame on knees that popped audibly as he groaned himself upright. Years of playing division one baseball behind the plate during his college years had caught up to him in recent years, and it wasn't uncommon to catch him wincing when those old knees accepted the full weight of his six-foot two build. He spoke softly from behind his dark, sunken eyes. "Guys, the incident in Afghanistan is squarely on my shoulders, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone else. I'm already carrying the memory, so I'm in for tonight." His voice and his eyes trailed off blankly. "I guess I've got a little more room in my bags for a mission like tonight." Keith nodded slowly, and Brian noticed the welling trembling ever-so-slightly in the corner of the commander's eyes. Three more of the night shift pilots stood and silently joined the mission, and their commander nodded knowingly through a profound misery.

"No matter which side of this mission you ended up on tonight, I want you all to know that I couldn't be more proud of each and every one of you. I don't know where we're going to land after this or what's going to happen in the next twelve hours. Colonel Ferrer advised us all to make our peace with whatever deity we believe in, and I want to pass that advice to you now." He blinked back the emotion for the last time and fell into the mission-focused combat leader his pilots knew him to be; all business. "Flight briefing in one hour, we step to the jets in one-plus-thirty. Pabst, have the fallback convoy prepped by our step time. Country," he said to Captain Kemp, "You're manning the ops desk—let us know as soon as the jets are ready." He paused again, wishing that some prolific quotation from across the ages might present itself to pass on in this moment, but his eyes only focused silently on the squadron standing before him. He nodded again and moved to leave the room. "Make it happen," he commanded.

* * *

As he peeked over the railing of the small apartment building that overlooked the Air Force base, Johnny had to admit, _the plan was pretty damned good._ He had almost cut and run when El Lobo explained it the first time, but as the details emerged, he found himself agreeing that not only was it possible, but that _it was going to work_.

"Four car bombs into the main gate," El Lobo had started.

"Car bombs? We don't have explosives, jefe," Johnny interrupted.

"¡Cállate! I have a little recipe that will do the trick just fine with the first truck in line. Besides, we don't need a ton of explosives to get the job done with the rest of the vehicles, cabron! We just need gasoline! We're not going to blow a hole in the wall or the buildings—we're going to create a massive distraction that will get everyone's attention," El Lobo instructed. "These right here," he laughed, holding up an uninflated water balloon, "filled with gasoline and packed in the cars, will do more for us than those big car bombs they use in the middle east! I have the first one rigged to blow like a giant pipe bomb—once that one goes off, the fire bombers will do the trick nicely for us."

Fire. Simple. It made sense. Drive the firebombs up, set them on a course to the impact points, and abandon the vehicle. Smart… give the drivers hope for their own survival and they'll happily execute the plan. Simple riggings designed to burst and ignite with a burning road flare placed in the beds and crew cabs… With all of the abandoned vehicles around the camp, fuel was easily accessible. Rile up the refugees—that part was easier than he'd imagined as well.

"Your job, Gringo," El Lobo began as Johnny protested.

"Ringo—mi nombre es 'Ringo!'" he complained.

"Your name is what I call you, y ahora tu nombre es El Gringo!" El Lobo laughed. "Put your uniform back on, soldado. Start moving the people towards the exit points—keep them quiet!" When the time comes, we'll flood the two gates from the three refugee centers. Tell them that, no matter what, they have to get to the passenger terminal—straight down the main street—don't stop for anything! No matter what happens, the airplanes will leave with whoever gets there first!" He smiled. "That will keep them moving."

Keeping them quiet had been the hard part. With just a few abandoned uniforms, he had been able to piece together an apparent cadre of soldiers to spread the word very quickly amongst the three camps, and he was surprised at how quickly the refugees moved into position. As they grew closer to the gates, their voices had grown louder as their hopes and fears soared simultaneously. A few hushed commands, "Cierra las bocas! Los Muertos!" had been enough to use the spreading dread of the dead to keep the noise level low enough so as not to alert the base perimeter guards just a few hundred meters away.

Manny Villalobos looked up at his older brother with anxiety-ridden eyes. El Lobo recognized the alarm and laughed as he chambered a round in his assault rifle. "I remember mi primera vez…" he whispered. "Don't worry, little brother. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Here," he leaned towards the teenager with the butt of a small pistol extended outward. "This is for you, hermanito." Manny slowly wrapped his fingers around the weapon and was shocked to feel the weight pull his hand down. "It's loaded and ready to go." El Lobo took his brother by the scruff of the neck and leaned in closer, hissing in his ear. "You stay right on my ass—you protect me from anything coming from the sides or behind us that ain't one of us—no questions—you shoot. And you shoot to kill!" He pulled back slightly, leaving both hands on the younger man's shoulders as he laughed. "And just think, you wanted to stay at that stupid school and play with the baseball!" The older man walked back to his own weapon and wrapped the sling around his right fist a couple of times before issuing a final command. "On my ass, you hear me little brother? I'm counting on you."

* * *

Airman First Class Mackenzie Heffernen guided the Humvee slowly, cautiously squeezing the wide vehicle between the narrow rows of solar panels. Security forces normally conducted their duties across the large airbase with patrol vehicles that were nearly identical to the types used by civilian police officers. With the local arrival of the Arizona Army National Guard, they had acquired a platoon's worth of tactical vehicles to assist with airbase defense. Maneuvering the standard sedan would have been difficult enough in these confines, to say nothing of attempting to steer the wide Hummer with the terrible visibility afforded through the up-armored windshield. She brought the vehicle to a halt as the rear bumper entered the massive array of power generating plates, only to draw a quick rebuke from her supervisor, Master Sergeant Ingram.

"No, no, no," he whispered knowingly. "Pull all the way up to the perimeter road."

"Yes sergeant," she replied, clearly not thrilled with the requirement to move the large vehicle through the tight space between the panels. "I didn't want to give away our position."

Sergeant Ingram nodded understandingly as he adjusted the single night vision tube protruding from before his left eye. "That's reasonable, but we need to able to maneuver also. You can't do that from back here—only way out is backwards, which takes your attention from the threat. Or you can go forward to engage, but until you clear the panels, you can't fight."

She cocked her head in acknowledgement while continuing to sway from side to side and gain better depth perception from the pair of night vision goggles that hung from her helmet. As the Humvee cleared the panels, Sergeant Ingram pointed to the northeast and motioned for her to bring the vehicle to a halt. "Now, from here we can move the vehicle, or we can dismount in any direction and use the solar panels on either side of us for immediate cover." Mackenzie nodded again as she scanned the area. So, that's that thing everyone keeps calling 'experience,' she thought.

As if he could read her mind, the older Sergeant bellowed a quiet but deep laugh. "Don't worry, Little Mac, you'll get it. Give it time." Even in the darkness, Mackenzie felt her face flush slightly at the nickname she'd adopted during her time as a Security Forces Defender. _Real_ _original_ , she thought. _Tip the scales at five-foot-nothin' and what do they come up with?_ She sighed silently and replaced her two-barreled NVGs with the tactical monocle that would allow her to use her right eye while firing her M4 assault rifle. "Weapons status red, sergeant," she reported as she confirmed that her rifle was ready to fire.

"Outstanding, Little Mac," he replied, never taking his eyes from the scene in front of them. "Dismount—you've got the north side, I'm scanning northeast." They exited and took up prone positions at the opposite corners of the Humvee's front bumper. The streets are quiet tonight, she realized. Maybe too quiet? A surprising lack of sounds from the neighborhood across the street from the base seemed odd. On every previous night, there had always been some kind of sound marking the presence of people. And a lot of people, at that, she told herself. The four square blocks marking the Corbett subdivision had been quarantined by the Army National Guard on the east side of Craycroft Road, and the dramatic influx of citizens from across the city had always carried a muffled but clearly audible presence. Even with the blackout restrictions and curfew, there had always been the signs—the signature sounds of humanity.

Not so tonight.

And there was something else… something that Mackenzie couldn't quite put her finger on. A slowly festering feeling of dread tickled the back of her neck, causing the light red hair to seemingly stand straight up. _I could use a little more of that experience right now…_ she considered.

"Sergeant Ingram, she whispered, "does something seem not right to you?" She hoped he would use that vast experience of his to put her fears at ease, but his words only provided another rattle to an already nervous spine.

"I was just thinking the same thing," he replied. "Almost seems, I don't know, too quiet maybe." Across the Humvee, Mackenzie exhaled slightly as his words matched her previous thoughts a little too closely for comfort. _So, I don't have experience, but maybe there's a little instinct in there_ , she thought.

Ten minutes dragged by. Mackenzie scanned her sector methodically, always following her sight line with the muzzle of her weapon, occasionally triggering the laser attached to the top rail of the armguard to gauge her naked-eye and NVG-assisted aiming references. Keeping her eyes downrange, she broke the silence. "Sergeant Ingram, what was it like-your first time?" A low laugh slipped from the darkness across from her.

"Well, if you must know," he chuckled, "I was fourteen… she was older—seventeen if I remember right. But you gotta know, I looked older for my age—"

"Not THAT first time," she scolded, slightly embarrassed by her supervisor's comment. Her soft rebuke only brought more muffled laughter.

"I know, Little Mac. Just yankin' yer chain a little," he explained. "You mean first time in combat? Or first time shooting someone?"

His retort caught her by surprise and she blinked back from her gunsights. "Umm, both, I guess," she stammered. She had assumed that the two events coincided.

"Funny thing, Little Mac," he began. "That's probably the most-asked question by you noobs—hell, it was the first thing I wanted to know when I went downrange for the first time." He trailed off momentarily, and she noticed his red laser spot moving slowly along the top of the wall across the street; the occasional reflections from the spiral razor wire that topped the wall sparkled brilliantly. Jeff Ingram sighed noticeably as he cut off his laser.

"I grew up in a bad part of town, so I was used to hearing gunfire. It sounds odd to say that, but you can get used to anything. Sure, it'll give you a start when it's been awhile, but it becomes," he seemed to search for the right description, "familiar. Even still… first time in your own gunfight, it don't matter how many times you've heard a weapon firing—the range, the 'hood, anywhere. The booms are the same, but it takes your brain a second to realize what's going on, even if you've heard gunfire every day your life. The cracks—bullets as they go by—they take a few seconds to register. Then it hits you, almost like someone whispering in your ear: they're shootin' at you, dummy! And still, you sit there… like you're enthralled by what you're hearing. And then that voice grabs you by the throat and kicks you in the balls," his voice rose slightly, though he kept his voice hushed, "THEY'RE SHOOTING AT YOU! " he laughed slowly. "And then you react. Hopefully, your training kicks in and you do your job the way you're supposed to. I've seen some, though," he paused, "they just freeze up. Cain't handle it. Cain't get past that first recognition—cain't get past the voice yelling in their ear. It ain't good, but it happens Little Mac. It happens."

"Do you think I'll freeze up?" she hesitated her query.

"You?" he snorted. "Shit no. You're a little hellion, Heffernen!" he laughed. "Damned soulless ginger—anyone you fight likely to think they tanglin' with the devil herself!" Mackenzie felt her face flush again as Jeff continued. "But seriously Mac, no one knows until they get past that first crack. Same with shootin' someone. You get past the cracks, and you get to hammerin' on the bang-switch, and your training kicks in. Targets are targets, whether they breathin' or just paper tacked to a frame. The killin' ain't the hard part. It's thinkin' about it afterwards that sucks." His voice trailed off into the darkness and the two laser pointers moved in their rhythmic scanning as the two lay in silence.

"You wanna know why I think you'll be alright child?" He finally asked.

"Yes," she replied, too quickly—she'd wrestled with asking that very question since they fell into silence, but didn't want to seem too inquisitive or unsure of herself.

"Remember last year on that field op when I made you take the SAW?" The SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon, was a large, heavy machine gun normally reserved for the burliest members of a unit to carry into battle.

"Yes, sergeant," she rolled her reply sarcastically. During that training exercise, as they drew their weapons and prepared to march into the desert to spend three days operating against a simulated hostile force, Sergeant Ingram had very publically placed the largest weapon in the hands of the smallest member of the unit.

"Well, I was just fuckin' wit you… at first." His voice had leveled into a seriousness that she found herself unprepared for. "That's what we do to the noobs—give them the goddammned SAW and tell 'em to hump that bitch for three days. The look on most of their faces is enough to get a good laugh from the squad. Once I see desperation, I take the weapon back and give it to the rightful owner. But your ass…" his voice trailed off in recollection. "You carried that damned thing right out the door before I could give up the joke. So I let you have it—figgered you come back cryin' after the first klick we humped through the bush, but no. You stubborn little shit—you carried that fuckin' cannon for three fuckin' days. You know that every squad leader came up to me after that and said that you were on their team for every op after that?"

Mackenzie blinked again and focused her eyes on the sand under her arms. She had just assumed that what she had gone through that year was just more of the rights of passage to be expected from a combat unit, or maybe even a way for the men to see if she was tough enough to be a part of their team. Growing up as the daughter of an infantryman, she expected the hazing and teasing.

She hadn't expected to pass such a test without even knowing that one had been proctored!

"That's how I knew you'd be a little bad-ass," he interrupted her thoughts. "That's how I know you'll be alright when the triggers start barkin' and the lead starts whizzin' 'round ya head." They both fell into their disciplined scans and let the silence envelope them again in the uneasy stillness.

The soft but telltale crunching of gravel beneath rubber tires signaled the approach of another Humvee from within the maze of solar panels behind them, and both defenders slowly advanced to their feet and moved behind their vehicle. "Looks like the el-tee makin' his rounds," Jeff observed. He elbowed Mackenzie softly in the ribs, "sometimes he brings some damned good coffee," he instructed.

"Ugh," she moaned, "that shit's disgusting. Nasty. Filthy."

Jeff laughed openly at her disdain for what he referred to as the lifeblood of the military. "Little Mac, you better find yourself a vice—you don't drink, don't smoke, and you don't even drink the finest black elixir ever given down to humanity." He leaned close to whisper in her ear, "you better find something to live for!"

Uncharacteristically, Lieutenant Roberson slammed his Humvee to a stop amidst a flurry of scattered gravel and leapt down from the vehicle. He strode quickly towards the fence and called over his shoulder to the two sentries. "Have you two seen any patrols outside the wire?"

 _That was it_ , Mackenzie thought, _that's what's wrong_. A sudden pit grew in her stomach, filling her abdomen with icy anxiety that made her shiver in the warm night air.

The national guard was not conducting their perimeter patrols around the quarantines.

Behind them, three other defenders leaned from the doors of the Humvee. "Saunders, Morrison," the lieutenant called back, "You're here with Ingram and Heffernen." He turned back to the senior NCO and spoke in hushed tones, "We're in F-P-CON delta. Be ready."

"For what sir—what's goin' on out there?" Jeff asked, an edginess creeping into his hushed tones. From the opposite side of the base, a series of deep bellows reverberated through the night air—a sound that had once been very common at the busy air force base, but which had gone silent during the course of the current crisis—jet engines starting up. The sharp booms of the turbofans lighting off carried distinctly without the competition of a normally busy thoroughfare to muzzle them. _Why do I think that's not a good sound?_ Jeff Ingram thought as he looked back towards the flight line.

The light from the blast hit them first; just quick enough to get their eyes turning towards the source before the sound and concussion waves followed. Ingram and Roberson instinctively kicked their feet from beneath them; Mackenzie turned towards the rising fireball, blinked against the deafening roar that suddenly filled her ears and tried to understand the abrupt appearance of an invisible tornado that unbalanced her stance. Her eyes widened at the sight of the rising fireball to their west when her armored vest unexpectedly tightened around her chest. The burning cloud continued to rise, but her eyes were falling and the ground reaching up to catch her. No, that's not right… she wasn't falling—she was being pulled down by her armor. A hand was on her collar. The roaring became a voice. Jeff. Sergeant Ingram. His lips nearly under the edge of her helmet. Undecipherable. Yelling. Roaring. An explosion. _My God, that's beautiful,_ she thought, still transfixed on the fireball.

"GET THE FUCK DOWN MAC!" The order suddenly snapped the world into focus and her vision cartwheeled from a tunnel of swirls into perfect focus. _A bomb had just gone off_. In the direction of the main gate. "Weapons out!" Jeff barked, and she found herself instantly prone, M4 at the ready as she perched upon her elbows. _Find a target_ , she told herself. Behind them, the radio in the lieutenant's vehicle exploded with life. Multiple transmissions overcut each other, but Mackenzie heard several words that spread the ice in her belly.

"… Craycroft gate…. Under attack…"

"… vehicles inbound… standby!" Another massive fireball rose into the night sky, followed by the ear-splitting roar and the concussion wave that rocked her helmet to the side and toppled her NVG monocle. She threw a glance over her left shoulder towards the command vehicle and the image her eyes captured burned into her consciousness: Lieutenant Roberson, features highlighted in the sudden flashes of burning fuel climbing into the night sky… the radio handset clutched against his face with his left hand and his right cradling his M4 balanced on the open door of his Humvee… orders shouted into the microphone… eyes continuously scanning for targets… Mackenzie locked her jaw and threw her eyes forward, her right eye focused on the iron sights of her own weapon, waiting to identify the first sign of movement on the other side of the chain link fence before her…


	3. Chapter 3: Into the Breach

**Chapter 3: Into the Breach**

The first blast wave hit the squadron building with so much force that Brian felt as if the entire structure had been dropped from a small height to crash down upon its foundation. Dust fell from the ceiling in thin waterfalls, and the sudden cries of terror from the mass briefing room housing the families was quickly lost in the cascading din of multiple explosions and a hail of gunfire from the other side of the base. The veterans of overseas operations looked at one another stunned in the realization and recognition of the explosion _; that was no rocket and it definitely wasn't a hand-thrown device_.

 _That was a car bomb._

Keith Laubacher emerged from the aircrew flight equipment room in full combat ensemble. A moment's glance at Brian Rawlins said it all: _execute the fallback plan._ Without a word, he pushed through the glass doors at the back of the squadron and began sprinting for the flightline, his three wingmen struggling to keep up with him under the loads of equipment that they carried out. Brian dashed to the main briefing room and met his son in the doorway. Trevor's eyes had expanded to the size of saucers and Brian answered him without hesitation. "Yes, the base is under attack. Let's go." He scooped up his daughter and her friend into his arms and began shepherding the mass towards the waiting vehicles. Outside, the noise grew even louder, and additional explosions lit up the night sky; the rolling shockwaves hit them with an unexpected force that threatened to knock their feet from beneath them. Brian tossed his youngest into the backseat of the waiting truck as quickly yet gently as he could muster under the circumstances, then pushed Trevor into the space next to the small girls. "Hold onto them!" he barked, then turned to make sure that the flow of bodies from the squadron managed to pack into the line of idling vehicles. He ran down the line, helping to situate screaming children and petrified family members, offering simple reassurances when he could. Each vehicle contained at least one uniformed member, and Brian briefly confirmed the routing and plan of action with each before sprinting back to the lead truck.

"Country" and "Dude" came flying from the squadron building, rifles slung across their backs and pistols brandished. "That's everyone in this first push!" Country shouted as he pulled his Kevlar helmet onto his head. "You got the first convoy, Pabst—get movin' and I'll get the second push set up with the rest of the squadron!" The cacophony of gunfire and explosions began to roil with a new uproar, and Brian recognized screams; screams of terror… screams of shock and general pandemonium—all gaining in volume as the gunfire from across the base intensified. Behind them, jet engines boomed to life and Brian nodded at his friend. "Dude" jumped into the passenger seat of the lead vehicle and Brian took the wheel after one last assessment to make sure they had left none of their charges behind. He looked down at his watch and was surprised to see that more than a half hour had passed since the first explosion. In the seat next to him, "Dude" Farrell twitched with the uncontrollable excitement that accompanies one's first step towards combat. As one of the younger members of the squadron, Dude had not yet deployed, and his anticipation spread so forcefully that his body was unable to contain the stimulation in any other manner than through a rapid swaying—for a moment, Brian thought that Dude had put his headphones in and was pumping himself up to a speed metal tune. He slowly recognized the exhilaration of a first exposure to mortal battle and allowed a little of his own tension to escape with a quick laugh and a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Relax brother, we're going to get through this," he instructed. He realized that, as pilots, so many of them reached this point one-hundred percent alone in their individual cockpits—linked to their wingmen via radios and mutually-supportive formations, but absolutely unaccompanied in the single-seat fighter. He wondered how similar his own twitches had been on that first combat sortie so many years ago when his thoughts were shattered by the whimpering from the two young girls in the back seat. Turning his attention again to the present, he leaned in between his own and his crew-chief's daughter and did his damnedest to sound convincing. "Everything's going to be alright sweethearts—we're going to go to a safe place on the other side of the base where none of the bad things are happening."

"I want my daddy!" screamed Aubrey Lynn.

"I want my mommy!" shouted Amelia. Brian looked back at Dude Farrell, who was moving a little slower now, checking the hot status of both of his weapons. He looked up at his friend in the driver's seat.

"Let's do this," he commanded. Brian ripped the lever into drive and slammed down his foot, tearing out of the parking lot in a hail of gravel that peppered the vehicles behind him. Tracers and flashes of light echoed across the night sky as the convoy pulled out onto the road that paralleled the flight line and would take them to the massive aircraft storage area on the east side of the base.

* * *

Lieutenant Roberson gritted his teeth and resisted the growing urge to squeeze the trigger on his M-4 in response to the incredible frustration he felt building through his chest.

"Negative sir! If I pull my forces from their current positions, the entire northeast flank of the base will be undefended!" he shouted into the microphone at his lips.

"Lieutenant, I AM ORDERING YOU TO GET YOUR ASS TO THE CRAYCROFT GATE! I NEED EVERY GUN ON THAT ENTRANCE—WE ARE ABOUT TO BE OVERRUN!"

His mind raced… he wanted—needed—to protest the order. His commander's direction flew in the face of every tactical defense instruction he had every received, and Toby steeled himself against the debilitating angst tearing him in two directions. The good soldier screamed at him to get into the fight— _any fight—just get there and affect the battle!_ The experienced tactician and collected warrior told him that the fight was coming this way—the assault on the main gates were a distraction. The key to getting in here is not through the armored chest-plate, but the soft underbelly— _six defenders and some barely-trained augmentees are the only things holding the flanks_. He raised the mic to protest the order one last time when a large black hand stopped his movement. Jeff Ingram met his eyes stoically and, over the raging din of the battle, simply stated. "Sir, you don't have to sacrifice yourself to our boss—I'll ignore the order and hold this corner—you go hit 'em in the sides of that attack and if we don't get hit over here, I'll pull up the reserves."

Toby nodded slowly. He and Jeff had fought many battles together… some on the battlefield, most in the corporate bureaucracy that they both felt had tainted their organization all too often. "Pull up one squad from the rear to hold your position—use the augmentees to start evacuating base housing towards the center of the flightline," he ordered. He held the other man's gaze for a moment before continuing. "God bless you brother, and good luck. I'll meet you in the middle." Jeff laughed at the comment—their standard departure briefing had always implied that all lines of battle met in one place—the center of the battle. The prior-enlisted officer had stolen a quotation from a former Navy SEAL and used it as his own mantra, telling his troops that in combat he would be the easiest person to find because he would be in the middle of the battle. Jeff nodded and returned the salutation.

"I'll see you in the middle, sir. Godspeed." As Jeff turned to execute the orders, Toby swung into the passenger seat of the Humvee and pointed towards the main gate. The tires had hardly started rolling when the distinct flashes of automatic weapons fire from the streets outside the base drew his attention in the rearview mirrors _. Goddammit_ , he thought, _I hate it when I'm right._

"STOP! STOP!" He ordered his driver. Before the vehicle had lurched to a halt, Toby was back out on his feet, his M-4 drawn up and forward, and his thumb flicked off the safety as he lined up the laser sight on the muzzle flashes targeting the corner of the base. Drawing tension from his index finger into the trigger, he never saw the flickering approach of the flaming bottles as they arced through the night air towards his now-stationary Humvee.

Jeff Ingram had also immediately brought his weapons to bear on the muzzle flashes outside the fenceline. From the corner of his eye, the brightly illuminated brake lights of the officer's Humvee caught his attention. _Great,_ he smiled, _converging fire—the lieutenant's weapons will help mass a little return gesture!_

He too saw the Molotov cocktails in flight and tried to scream a warning, but his voice was lost in the raucous commotion of the firefight and a mouth that suddenly seemed too dry to support words. The flames seemed to dance as their flight path apexed in a motion that almost drew time to a complete stop. Jeff saw the individual flashes from weapons on both sides of the fence and caught the shining glimmer of a single spent casing as it tumbled away from his own weapon… the smoke curls lazily twirling away from the open end of the fired metal case—he hardly realized that even as his eyes tracked the floating objects that his finger never left the trigger… transfixed on the flaming bottles that began accelerating downhill, he didn't even feel the kick of the rifle stock against his shoulder.

The first bottle hit exactly at the Lieutenant's feet, and Jeff clearly saw his face shift downward as the flames exploded upward. In the instant that the flames engulfed Toby Roberson, Jeff's night vision goggle gained down against the sudden incursion of light, and he lost all details in that direction. The second bottle hit the roof of the Humvee, splashing the now-ignited liquid across the Airman who had begun exiting the vehicle as well. Jeff was on his feet and already charging the vehicle when a fresh salvo of flaming bottles lifted into the night air and began crashing down around the now burning vehicle. The driver of the Humvee had begun rolling in the dirt in the attempt to extinguish the flames that had grabbed his back and arms, but Toby Roberson simply kneeled—he looked like he was meditating as the angry flames leapt above his face and helmet. Jeff threw himself at the Lieutenant in a flying tackle but as the flames reached out for their new victim, he realized with sudden clarity that he had nothing to smother the fire with. By the time he could shed his body armor and rip his blouse from his torso to begin extinguishing the flames, the rattling gasps of choked breaths from Toby Roberson had become little more than a whimper. The charred and blackened face of his friend filled the air with a pungent odor that made him gag. The Lieutenant's eyes had transfixed on the night air above him, and they slowly rolled towards Jeff. "Fight," he choked weakly. "Fight you sonofabitch!"

And then the rattling wheezes ceased in one final hacking cough that shook the man's smoldering body. Jeff loosed a primal scream of pure anger, drew his weapon again to his shoulder and charged back to the position where Little Mac steadily hammered away with her own rifle.

"Contact, twelve o'clock—three tangos on the wall, one more hunkered down in the ditch at twenty meters!" she screamed. _Good lord_ , Jeff thought, _she's an absolute natural!_

"Keep suppressing the far targets on that wall, I'm on the bastard in the ditch!" he called as he rolled to his right and began advancing towards the fence line. No sooner had he began to move from the cover of the solar panels than he saw the man stand and attempt to draw a bead on Mackenzie's position. His AK-47 clearly shone in the dim light of the fight, and Jeff pumped three solid shots into the man's center of mass. He collapsed immediately, his finger squeezing the trigger and sending an automatic hail of rounds backwards into the wall hiding his comrades. Jeff smiled to himself and turned to instruct Little Mac to keep her sights on that position but to be wary of any flanking movement when he saw it.

Lieutenant Roberson was on his feet.

What was left of any moisture in Jeff's throat evaporated, and his screams exited as mere wheezes. Silhouetted in the dim light, the smoldering smoke trails rose from the Lieutenant's charred and twisted body as he stumbled around the Humvee. His driver, who had huddled behind the burning vehicle tending to his own wounds and attempting to cradle his weapon in his burned hands, looked up bewildered at the officer who now staggered haphazardly around the back of the smoking vehicle. Their eyes seemed to lock for a moment, and then Jeff's heart stopped when the Lieutenant threw himself down upon the injured airman, his mouth lunging for the man's exposed neck. Even in the darkness, the spray of blood from the young airman's neck was unmistakable; the bright red fountain almost glowed against the backdrop of flickering flames still leaping into the night air.

Jeff Ingram had many combat deployments under his belt. He had engaged in firefights and hand-to-hand combat on more occasions than he cared to consider. But the sight before caused a totally unfamiliar emotion. It began with an audible thumping in his ears that echoed the pounding in his chest and ended in gasps as he struggled to catch his now-elusive breath. The muzzle of his rifle dropped, and Jeff Ingram finally understood.

He was afraid.

The man that he had just dropped across the fence-line stood, the wet front of his flannel shirt glistening in the continued flashes. His head lopped lazily from side to side and his hands flailed at the fence in front of him wildly. A terrifying glutaral rasping flew from his throat. Lightning streaks of light cut through the night air and slammed into the man's chest with sickening thumps. Jeff blinked his eyes and finally recognized the tracers hitting this thing in disciplined groups of three from his right side; Little Mac… she'd adjusted fire and poured the remaing rounds of her magazine into the center of mass, just as she'd been trained.

But this time, the target didn't fall. The man, if that's what he was, just shook with the impacts of the 5.56 millimeter rounds and continued clawing madly at the chain-link fence.

"Sergeant Ingram!" she screamed as she loaded a fresh thirty round magazine into her weapon. "What do you want me to do? This asshole won't go down!" Her voice cut out as she began pouring another set of rounds into the standing corpse, sending scraps of clothing, flesh, and blood into the night air.

"Fall back," Jeff whispered, losing his own words in the racket drubbing his head. He tried again, and found that the words just weren't there. Seeing the Lieutenant rising again off to his left, the terror in his throat rose, and the words finally came in a high-pitched crescendo that only magnified his personal horror. "FALL BACK, GODDAMIT!"

* * *

They had barely drove one block to the east of their squadron building when Brian Rawlins slammed on the brakes, throwing all four occupants of the vehicle forward against their arms outstretched against the sudden deceleration. He couldn't believe his eyes; vehicles crowded the road in complete chaos—some obviously having slammed into one another; others clearly abandoned where they had swerved off the road to avoid others.

The road was impassable.

Panicked groups charged in all directions. He recognized the uniforms of some moving away from flightline buildings, some brandishing weapons as they moved to augment defensive positions. Others moved in complete horror as their fight or flight reflexes drove them to flee. Many of those who seemed to bolt without any measure of discipline lacked uniforms— _families_ , Brian thought. _Dammit, didn't anyone else have a plan for the worst-case option?_ He threw the vehicle into park and started to open the door.

"Come on kiddos, we're going to go for a little walk," he said as confidently and calmly as he could muster to the little ones in the back seat. He turned towards his older son and blurted softly but sternly, "Buddy, I'm gonna need your help on this one." He grabbed the handheld radio that connected him to all vehicles in the convoy and keyed the mic. "All players, dismount and meet at my vehicle—we're going on foot." In the backseat, both girls sniffled away tears of pure fear.

"I'm scared," Amelia sniveled.

"I know baby, but daddy's here," Brian started, and instantly regretted it. His words brought a wail from Aubrey Lynn, who began clamoring immediately for her daddy. He tried to reassure her as best as possible. "Aubrey, sweet-heart, it's okay angel. Your daddy is going to be waiting for us on the other side of the base. He's just got to get the airplanes on their way, and then he'll run over and find you. You want to get there to see your daddy?" His words seemed to trigger a sudden courage, and she sobbed away a few last tears, and climbed down behind Amelia. Brian shot a glare towards his son; "Don't let them out of your sight!" he commanded.

As the members of the stalled convoy began congregating near his vehicle, he looked towards the squadron representatives and mentally counted the members—it seemed that they had everyone.

"Listen up," he shouted. "Everyone keep track of the occupants of your vehicle. We're going to push out on foot—we'll stay on the south side of the road and I'll stop about every block or so to let everyone catch up. Carry the kids if you need to, but stay close!" He noticed the resolute eyes of the escorting squadron members mixed with the abject fear of the family members they escorted. He squeezed the hands of the two little girls on either side of him tightly and bellowed, "Let's roll!"

* * *

On the flightline, Colonel Ferrer had no sooner returned the salute and reached out to grasp his crew-chief's hand when the first fireball climbed into the sky behind them. They both turned towards the direction of the flash as the blast tore through the air around them. The Colonel opened his mouth to bark an order, but Staff Sergeant Allen Middleton had already grabbed the helmet and saddle bags from the older officer's hands and was half-way up the A-10s boarding ladder to deposit the flight gear in the cockpit. Almost transfixed by the rising ball of flame, Colonel Ferrer nearly had to physically smack himself away from the haunting sight that ensnared every fabric of conscious thought. His hands flew to the leg and chest straps of his harness, and he met Allen at the base of the ladder. "Everything good with the jet buddy?" he shouted. Normally, a pilot and crew-chief might exchange polite pleasantries—asking about weekend plans or family endeavors before casually reviewing the maintenance logs and performing the cursory preflight "walk-around" of the aircraft. As the rattle of automatic weapons fire echoed across the flight-line, Colonel Ferrer reached for the ladder. He noticed that Allen was frozen—mesmerized by the rising smoke plumes. "ALLEN!" he yelled, getting the younger man's attention. When his crew-chief blinked back into the present, he continued. "We're gonna have to get outta here fast—I'm going to run through the checks as fast as I can—you with me?"

"With you sir," he gasped. "Number three's clear when you're ready!" He followed the older officer up the ladder and quickly ensured his harness was connected correctly to the aircraft's ejection seat. He grabbed the red plastic cover from the throttle and noticed that the Colonel had extended his hand. Awkwardly, he gripped it in a firm handshake. The old man's eye's seemed to tremble as he held the handshake for a moment, then nodded sadly and released. Michael Ferrer looked down the row of aircraft and saw that his wingmen were well ahead of him with their pre-flight checks. Their engines already running, the flight control surfaces flashed as the pilots ran through confirmatory procedures that ensured the vehicles were ready for flight. He nodded sadly in deep appreciation for the professionalism and devotion to duty under heart-wrenching circumstances, then Allen flew down the ladder and threw his headset over his ears. The Colonel's voice rang out clearly through the headphones.

"Three's comin' up," he shouted as the auxiliary power unit roared to life. Allen heard the normal beeps and squeals of systems coming on line above him. The aircraft's motors boomed online and as he moved into position to verify the correct operation of the flight controls, a very calm voice resonated from the headset. "Buddy, listen to me clearly. I'm about done up here, and when I tell you to disconnect, I want you to pull those chocks and get your ass to the Boneyard," he instructed. "Don't ask questions, don't ask permission—as the acting Wing Commander, I'm giving you an order. Get to the Boneyard, and get everyone of your bros with you."

"Sir, my daughter's in the squadron-" he started.

"She's being taken care of, buddy. Everyone is falling back to the Boneyard—to the C-5s. Don't worry about catching the jets—I don't think we're coming back here," the Colonel called. When Allen stammered slightly in hesitation, Colonel Ferrer called down to him. "The jet's good to go buddy. Pull chocks and disconnect."

"Good luck, sir," Allen managed.

"Good luck to you too, brother."

Across the flight-line, engines thundered online, and the occasional high-pitched whine marked another jet moving from the sunshade parking locations towards the runway. As his own aircraft lurched forward, Colonel Ferrer looked down and saw that Allen Middleton stood at a rigid and perfect position of attention, his right arm cocked in a textbook salute. Mike Ferrer returned the salute as best he could, then turned his eyes to the dimly lit taxiway. As he noticed Allen quickly gathering up his few possessions and sprinting for the flight-line exit, a heart-stopping sight drew his eyes towards the far end of the parking structures containing the fleet of attack aircraft.

People were beginning to run out _onto_ the flight-line.

 _This is not good_ , he thought again as he advanced the throttles and hurtled the heavily-laden aircraft towards the runway.

* * *

The gravity of the unfolding situation hit Keith Laubacher square in the gut, threatening to topple him from atop already unsteady knees trembling slightly beneath the added weight of his flight and survival gear. His eyes widened involuntarily, and he felt the breath pulled from his chest. Before him, the rising crescendo of jet engines began to mix with screams of panic and terror; the far end of the flight line seemed to pulse in every direction as a stampede of terrified persons flooded through the gates. In the darkness, from this distance, the mob's movements took on a life-like quality as it exploded from a few individuals streaming through breaks in the fence into an indistinguishable mass of flesh, screams, and flailing appendages. The sea of bodies seemed to flow towards the cargo aircraft— _were they trying to escape? Do they think there's an evacuation?_ Keith wondered. The massive propellers on the large airplanes began to spin and hum, and the initiation only seemed to spur the crowd into a more frenzied panic.

Behind him, the night sky continued to flash within the massive fireballs that climbed into the sky. Automatic gunfire rose and fell in both increased ferocity, and longer periods of inactivity. In every direction, the screams grew louder. Keith realized that the three pilots surrounding him had also frozen, their eyes and heads slowly scanning the unbelievable chaos growing around them. He grabbed the nearest—a young Lieutenant—a student pilot, and pushed him towards the flight line. "Let's go!" He shouted with far more confidence than he actually felt, and somehow found the strength to begin running.

The four pilots fanned out to their assigned aircraft, and Keith felt an all-too-familiar anxiety growing in his gut. He wondered if they could get the aircraft started and moving before that mass of panic found its way to their end of the parking ramp. _Don't think,_ he ordered himself shakily. _Just act. Get it done._ Arriving at his aircraft in a dead sprint, he slammed full-force into his crew-chief who had attempted to meet him near the tails. Keith leaned in to the younger man's ear and shouted above the din of the growing battle. "Get outta here! I'll get her started on my own!"

"Sir, who's gonna pull your chocks?" The crew chief protested.

"I'll jump them—get everyone off the flight line and get to the Boneyard—there's a fallback plan! Our rally point is in the C-5s at the far end!" The young enlisted man seemed to understand what the commander had ordered, and nodded gravely. Keith placed his hands on the man's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "You have your orders—get going!" The crew chief nodded again, then stiffened and popped a perfect salute. Keith admired the dedication and struggled to return the gesture beneath the helmet and saddle bags that hung over his right shoulder. As he climbed the ladder to a cockpit that suddenly seemed more lonely than a single-seat fighter had ever felt, his eyes befell his own name stenciled on the aircraft's nose. Flying his own aircraft, with the same nose-art caricature that had adorned and identified the squadron commander's jet since the Second World War, he couldn't help but try to capture the nostalgia of the moment. Panicked screaming growing ever closer snapped him from the fleeting trance and he threw himself into the cockpit.

From miles away, F-16 fighters roared into the air, their afterburners trailing brilliant arcs of streaming flames behind their ascents. _Vipers are airborne,_ Keith thought to himself. _They really did launch every capable unit._ He hastily fastened his harness and seat belt and powered up the basic systems powered by the aircraft's battery. His radio sprung to life with terrified calls across the common guard frequency that all aviators monitored. Indecipherable screams mixed with curt orders to keep the airwaves clear, and he finally shut the frequency off. As his motors began roaring to life, he noticed that the remaining maintenance personnel had piled into one of the remaining vehicles commonly referred to as a breadvan that began speeding south along the taxiway towards the Boneyard. His smile was short lived as the retreating breadvan carried his eyes to a heart-stopping sight.

The crowd had reached his wingman's aircraft.

Something was amiss, however, and Keith's brain refused to acknowledge and understand just what his eyes recorded. The crowd no longer appeared panicked—the individuals stumbled and ambled about in jerky and clumsy fits. They seemed to move without definition or purpose until stimulated by a new sight or sound; the thunderous booming of jet engines starting up drew their attention immediately, even in the dark, and they shambled together rapidly. _Jesus, those are the dead!_ Unable to pull his eyes from the sight, Keith found his hands moving remotely, starting his own motors purely from memorized muscle movements incurred over twenty years of repetition. The dead began to stumble towards his aircraft, only to abruptly change course and move back towards the latest fireball climbing angrily into the night sky from the opposite side of the base. Looking back to his wingman, Keith saw that the haphazard bodies could not manage to climb onto any structures of the aircraft, but they had congealed near the landing gear. His left thumb keyed the transmit switch on the throttle linking him to his wingman. "Jessie, you've got…" his voice trailed off. _What the hell are they? What do we call them? The Dead?_ "… _things_ all over the underside of your jet. Push up the throttles, jump your chocks, and hope they scatter."

"Two copies, almost ready to taxi," came the cool reply from the young officer. If he wasn't oblivious to the throngs of walking corpses less than five feet under his rear end, he gave no indications in his radio transmissions, simply referring to himself by his position in the formation. Keith nodded to himself and started his second engine, again drawing a few wretches stumbling back in his direction.

An unmistakable whine rose above the growing roar—twin turbofan jet engines running up to full power. Keith strained his eyes in the direction of the runway and caught sight of two blacked-out A-10s commencing their takeoff rolls. The heavily-laden aircraft rotated and began a tortuously slow climb into the blackness, their progress only occasionally silhouetted by the sporadic explosions ringing the north perimeter of the base. As his second engine reached its predicted idle RPMs, Keith looked down at a corpse shakily approaching his aircraft. It was clearly a young man—but for the blank slate of grey eyes and the blood streaming from multiple gunshot wounds in his chest, he almost appeared, _well, normal,_ Keith pondered. In the dim light of the parking structure, he could see that much of the color had drained from the man's face as he had likely bled-out from the many punctures across his torso. His mouth chopped at the air menacingly, and his hands began clawing at the empty space between the two of them. Keith realized that, for all of the lead up over the last weeks, that nothing had prepared him for the vision now before him. Even the grainy, unfocused videos on social media failed to capture the unmistakable horror as it unfolded in waxy, grey flesh-tones, blank stares and gnashing teeth. With his wingman's voice echoing in his headset stating his state of readiness, Keith leaned heavily on the two throttles and felt the heavy aircraft first strain against the wooden chocks stuffed in front of the two main wheels, then lurch awkwardly as the tires jumped over the obstacles against the nearly nine-thousand pounds of thrust screaming from the two engines. As soon as he felt the jet jump forward, he ripped the throttles to idle and stomped hard on the brake pedal to turn the jet before it careened into the one parked in front of it. His years of instructing young pilots kicked in, and he keyed the mic to transmit a warning to his wingman. "As soon as you get clear of the chocks, get to idle and turn the jet!" He screamed, but looking to his left, saw that he was too late. His wingman simply lacked the experience to handle the aircraft in such an advanced manner, and Keith watched helplessly as the large fighter careened into the aircraft shelter ahead of it. The engines continued to scream as the pilot kicked the opposite rudder and twisted the aircraft from the vertical support structure digging into its left wing, to pull hard and crash into a parked fighter to its right. The wing pulled apart at the root as the sunshade support buckled and brought the corner of its fabric roof tearing down.

For the first time in his career, Keith found it impossible to speak—behind his oxygen mask, his mouth froze in a silent scream as the waterfall of fuel springing from the young pilot's jet erupted in a geyser of flame.

The dead staggered towards the ensuing fireball belching columns of thick black smoke into the night air. The sudden heat wrapped around him violently, and Keith felt the tears streaming from his stinging eyes. He pounded his fists against the steel canopy bow that ringed his cockpit before reaching down to advance the throttles in an attempt to leave this chaos behind him. The mission called and demanded his attention. He cursed his fortune, the world, and everything around him before he realized that, while the engines began screaming with a familiar ferocity, he wasn't moving. His eyes first fell to the engine instruments above his right knee, but everything registered normal for the power setting he had selected. With his hear beating ever faster against his flight suit, survival vest, and parachute harness, he looked down from his cockpit.

The dead swarmed over the oversized landing gear, and were wedged in-front of, and beneath, the giant tires.

Keith screamed again, and bent the throttles forward. The engines howled with a thunderous whine, but the aircraft didn't move.

Just a few hundred meters away, Jim Evens had just reached for the cipher lock on the squadron's gate leading to the flight line when the explosion on the other side of the massive hangar stopped him in his tracks. His arms instinctively flew outward to hold back the pilots on either side of him. Additional fireballs climbed into the night sky further south on the ramp, near the base operations building. He pulled back, and with eyes never leaving the sight before him, fought to speak through a mouth that had gone suddenly dry. His voice strained and cracked, but he found the words.

"We're not going anywhere, boys."

* * *

The first car bomb actually caught Miguel by surprise—he had not been completely convinced that the messy recipe for home-brewed explosives that he had pulled from the internet years ago would actually work. Still, he lit the fuse and watched as the truck bounced towards the base gate, the driverless cab unable to comply with the shouted instructions to halt, and oblivious to the hundreds of rounds that suddenly barked from the automatic weapons perched upon concrete barriers. The small pickup bounced off the barricades, its engine still whirring in higher and higher RPMs as the wheels spun under the command of a weighted-down gas pedal. Just when he thought that the either the fuse had failed or the project was a complete fiasco, a blinding white flash that he seemed to feel before he truly saw knocked him back onto his ass. His vision returned slowly, though the ringing in his ears that mired his consciousness in a blurry buzz refused to dissipate as he shook his head against the fog. He found himself smiling, and had to fight against the intoxicating allure of admiring his handiwork. From the corners of his eyes, he saw the second wave of vehicles begin their runs, drivers diving from the cabs once the final trajectory had been assured. Small licks of flame flickered within the cabs and beds as the vehicles raced their deadly cargo of gasoline traps towards the fence line and gates. From behind, he felt Manny tugging at the base of his leather jacket, and he saw the barrel of the polished handgun flashing as it trembled in his hands.

Miguel was about to chastise his younger brother against such apparent weakness when he heard the shouts begin to rise; his soldiers began verbally whipping the refugee masses into an incredible frenzy as they began pouring from the camps.

"Quickly! Move through the gates! The aircraft are leaving! Get through the gates if you want to be evacuated to safety!" The refugees picked up the orders and repeated them as their own, quickly moving from a brisk walk to an outright sprint. Hundreds of them formed a human wave that crashed down upon the gate, forcing their way through the chatter of automatic gunfire and flanked by continuous columns of flame climbing into the night sky. Satisfied that the main gates were sufficiently swarmed by this panicked mass of flesh, Miguel reached for his handheld radio.

"Hit your corner, Gringo. Get to the hospital—I'll meet you there," he barked.

"Roger that," hissed the radio. "Johnny Ringo's on the attack!" Miguel snickered against the retort, and watched as his men flooded out of the apartments across from the base under a withering hailstorm of fire from their AK-47s. A pair of his troops—younger brothers of older members—crawled towards the fence as tracers filled the air above their heads. The same ditches that kept the monsoon floods from spilling into the base now covered the approach of the young aggressors as they crept forward. Undetected, they quietly clipped the metal hooks around the vertical fence supports and rolled to their sides as quickly as they could away from their completed objective. Behind them, engines roared to life, and a pair of 4x4s roared away from the perimeter, drawing the ropes tight that had been attached from their rear trailer hitches and affixed to the fence line. The chain-link barrier came down without much protest, and another hole was wrenched in the base defenses.

Miguel smiled in his victory. The terrified masses moved through the gate faster than he thought possible, and the fence at his primary objective had fallen without much effort at all. As he lifted his radio, he noticed that the bodies of those cut down by the defensive fire had begun to struggle back onto their feet. The dead stumbled erratically, but seemed to be drawn towards the pounding of the weapons, or to the glow of the fires. _So, that's what they look like,_ he thought, almost transfixed by the image of bloodied and dismembered corpses rising from the pools of blood beneath them to stagger in the direction of random stimuli. Before him, the lone automatic weapon that had continued to hinder the approach through the solar panels ceased barking, and he pulled at Manny's arm. "Let's go, Cabron!" He snorted. "We've already won," he started, but a high pitched whining above and to his right captured his attention, and he froze as he turned his eyes to the sky.

* * *

The group moved slowly on foot, mostly due to the fact that they kept to the shadows and leapfrogged their way from building to building in an attempt to stay off of the streets. Brian Rawlings maintained his point position at the head of the gaggle. Though the heaviest gunfire seemed to chatter from a consistent location near the base entrances, the horrified screams of terrified masses grew louder. After moving less than a half mile from their squadron, Brian saw the leading edges of the mob spilling through the main arteries of the base—unnerved and unhinged individuals sprinting towards some apparent salvation that he could not discern from his limited viewpoint. In the distance, he recognized the humming of transport aircraft engines sputtering to life and he wondered if some evacuation order had been given to the general populace that might have spurned this incredible chaos.

"You ever seen something like that?" Brady asked in hushed tones from beside him.

"Maybe at Disneyland when they drop the rope and everyone wants to be the first in line to ride," Brian joked.

"Yeah, yeah—I was gonna say the same thing!" Brady laughed, his quiet smile tinged with anxiety. His voice fell and his tones took a somber edge. "But what the hell are they wantin' to ride back here?"

"We've got to get through that," Brian offered, trepidation seeping into his words. The darkness congealed the masses into a single, throbbing mass spilling towards the flight line and the base operations facility housing the passenger terminal. The occasional explosion rising from the main gate nearly a mile away backlit the panicked masses, illuminating the individuals while masking their faces in ghastly shadows. Trevor crept up slowly beside his father, and even in the limited light, Brian saw his son's eyes widen at the sight.

"Where are they trying to get to?" He whispered.

"I don't know buddy. I just don't know," Brian returned.

Clutching his rifle at the ready position, Richard Kemp jogged up from his position in the middle of the formation. Slightly out of breath, he stammered, "You gotta see this—I got an idea!"

Brian turned to his son, "Hold on to your sister and her friend—do not just watch them! I don't want them out of your grip! We'll be right back," he commanded sternly. Gripping his pistol, he turned to follow the other two pilots as they scampered around the back side of the building they had crouched behind. They offered quiet reassurances to the family members they passed, many of whom sniffled and moaned as quietly as they could muster under the hot summer night air. As they reached the back corner of the building, Richard picked up a night-vision-goggle assembly and cautiously peered around the structure.

"Where'd you get those, Country?" Brady asked. Richard simply pointed down at a large green mobility bag that had been stuffed full of the mounts and soft cases holding the devices.

"Figured we'd need a few of these—packed out as much as I could from Life Support when Chalice gave us the order to prep." Brian nodded in agreement. Richard leaned back and held the mount towards him. "Look up the street. That mob is surging straight down Craycroft for the most part. Cops and augmentees are taking up positions at Base Ops—that's another firefight waitin' to erupt, and I don't want to try to cross that. But over here," he pointed towards the cross street, "looks pretty clear. We can get up there on the south side of the ball park—no one's goin' up and over fences to nowhere, so we should be able to get by and right up to the auto-hobby shop before we gotta cross. Then, we're into the golf-course and that's got plenty of cover and leads—"

"Straight to the Boneyard," Brady finished.

"Exactly," Richard flashed his charismatic grin that stretched from ear to ear before turning a serious tone. "One more thing though. I've been watchin' the movement—not everyone in that crowd is alive." His words cast an icy chill through Brian's chest. "By the time we get there, I think that more of the casualties from that fight at the gate will be mixed in that mess. The fast movers will be a bitch to get through, but the slow ones are what we gotta watch out for."

Brian nodded. "Get everyone together—let's get up there and see how we get across. Keep leap-frogging forward—and get some more of those NVGs out where we can use them!" He returned to the front of the formation and found Trevor's arms wrapped around both little girls, who clutched each other tightly and rocked softly beneath their sobs. "Come on buddy, we're going this way," he began as he nodded over his shoulder. When Trevor looked up quizzically, he continued. "Shortcut. Or, maybe just a little safer." He tried to scoop his daughter up into his arms, but she refused to let go of her friend. "Baby, I can't hold you both," Brian protested. The nine-millimeter pistol in his right had made the grab as awkward and clumsy, but the children remained locked together. As his mouth formed a stern rebuke, he noticed Trevor's outstretched hand. Brian nodded solemnly and placed the weapon in his son's hand before turning back to the girls. "Look, I can carry you both, but one has to ride on my back, and the other in the front—you can't stay balled up like that." They seemed to understand, and took up their new positions. _Holy shit,_ Brian thought as he pulled himself upright. _I wish I'd spent a little more time in the gym!_ He instinctively looked to see if someone could help shoulder the load, but noticed that everyone was weighted down either with children, weapons, or stuffed bags of supplies. Dude ambled up next to him beneath a backpack, mobility bag, and two rifles.

"At least you can tell your load to hold on tighter!" He laughed, as he slung one weapon and cradled the other.

"I know, right?" Brian whispered sarcastically. "Come on, Disneyland's open."


	4. Chapter 4: Fight or Flight

**Chapter 4: Fight or Flight**

 _Something's not right here._

It took Mike Ferrer a moment to process the scenery before him and understand just what had changed. He had climbed into the night sky above Tucson hundreds of times in all kinds of weather, but tonight, even as his muscle memory drove his hands through the cockpit in familiar patterns, his eyes befell a sight that kept causing him to pause until it finally registered.

 _The lights are all out—_ the cityscape that normally shone in brilliant hues now resembled the darkened moonscape pocked by various structures and man-made angles more familiar to combat zones on the other side of the earth. He looked back over his left shoulder and counted the various fires burning at the base gates.

"Ferret flight, airborne ops check; one is six-point-five!" He turned back to his rhythmic in-flight duties and commanded his formation to accomplish their initial airborne checks, beginning with their fuel state. The jets were light on gas tonight—his own holding only six thousand, five-hundred pounds of fuel—almost four thousand pounds less than normal. The fuel had been downloaded to make room for additional bombs, and Mike nodded solemnly at the realization. His three wingmen checked in crisply, each parroting a similar fuel state. Looking down at the five-inch square monitor over his left knee, Mike saw the symbols representing his wingman's aircraft positioned in a perfect trail formation, projected over the glowing map of Tucson. "One's passing two-thousand feet, goggles on!" He flipped down his night vision goggles and the world turned to hues of green before his eyes. He keyed his radio switch forward. "Tucson Approach, Ferret One, flight of four A-10s airborne out of D-M, passing four-point-five, climbing to ten-block-fourteen," he transmitted.

Silence answered him.

He tried again, to the same result before a new voice crackled on the frequency.

"Ferret, this is Hammer, four-by Fox Sixteens climbing out of Tucson. Be advised, we were told that Approach is gone—we're on our own up here."

"Copy that Hammer. Say altitude and target area." Mike wanted to deconflict his formation's flight path and target runs with the additional fighters, but looking over his right shoulder towards the large airport that also housed the Arizona Air National Guard, he quickly located the faster jets climbing high above him to the south.

"Hammer's passing eighteen for twenty—we're assigned to Casa Grande," came the terse reply. _Assigned to Casa Grande_ , Mike thought. _He doesn't want to say it any more than I do. We're not assigned anywhere—we're ordered to strike American cities._

"Copy that brother, we'll be fifteen and below, working north Tucson," he replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"Good luck, Ferret."

 _Good luck._ Normally, fighter pilots charged each other with a cursory salutation of _good hunting!_ Mike Ferrer found those words rolling around his tongue, more by habit than by actual intentions, and the altered transmission caught him off-guard, even as it seemed the appropriate thing to say. He wished he had something more prophetic or appropriate for the moment. But, finding none, he simply returned the thought as he watched the twinkling strobe lights of the other formation continue their climbing turn to the north.

"Good luck Hammer, we'll catch you on the backside." He moved his thumb backwards and transmitted to his wingmen, "Ferret flight, maintain trail, FENCE in, check master-arm in arm," he commanded. His wingmen answered succinctly by their formation positions.

"Two!"

"Three!"

"Four!"

As his left hand moved the switches that applied power to his weapons systems, Colonel Ferrer's headset snapped with his number three's voice. As the deputy flight lead, he backed up his boss with all administrative duties. "Boss, you hearin' that on Guard?" He looked down at the left console and realized that he had left the dual-monitoring functions off from the frenzied ground operations when the Guard frequency had exploded in overlapping chatter. He cursed under his breath and flipped the rotary on his mid radio to again receive the common frequency. No sooner had the knob reached the detent than his headphones erupted.

"—ng overrun… I say again! ANY AIRCRAFT, ANY AIRCRAFT, THIS IS DAVIS-MONTHAN BASE DEFENSE! WE ARE BEING OVERRUN AND REQUEST IMMEDIATE AIR SUPPORT!"

"One's got it!" He replied. "All Ferrets, make sure you're up two-forty-three-point-oh, manual on mid!" Switching the frequency on his own radio to enable transmission as well as reception, he mashed the mic switch down. "Base defense, this is Ferret Zero-One, we're four A-10s, and we're overhead." He drew a deep breath and forced his voice to sound as calm and collected as he could—nearly impossible against the dry mouth and heaving chest barely able to contain a heart that had suddenly began pumping with incredible anxiety. _Just like combat…_ he thought to himself. Again, years of training took the reins and forced himself into the breach of battle, attempting to project a professional demeanor that would naturally inject calm into the frenzied situation. "We're here to help, brother, tell us what you need."

On the ground, Jeff Ingram closed his eyes in a moment's relief. _It worked,_ he thought. Years earlier, In Iraq, he had crossed paths with a pilot who had been assigned to a ground liaison tour of duty. The words that he had passed in that unnamed dining facility before a patrol so long ago had carried little weight in the moment, but now proved to be nothing short of salvation. _You ever get in trouble out there, dial up this frequency,_ he had said as he pushed a scrap of paper with four numbers scribbled on it across the table. _Every pilot monitors that freq, and you'll have help overhead faster than pushing through the 'standard' request nets._ The radio again crackled to life, and he snapped back to the moment.

"Defender, I'm overhead the base now, and I've got enough firepower to get you through just about anything. Let me make sure I know who I'm talking to," the radio barked. Jeff nodded to himself and the year's old advice continued in his mind. _Authentication is critical—we need to know who we're talking to. Over here, sometimes a voice, lingo, and American accent is enough. But expect the pilots to ask you something to make sure they know you're a friendly._ "What's the Defender's motto?"

"Defensor fortis!" He spat.

"Roger that. Where'd you go through Basic?"

"Lackland!"

"Ferret Zero-One copies all. What's your position and status?"

Jeff struggled to pull himself up to a makeshift seated position and groaned as every joint answered in an ice pick of shooting pain. With gritted teeth, he looked around and attempted to assess his location as accurately as possible. With his back against one of the solar panel arrays, he faced roughly south, directly into base housing. About a hundred meters over his right shoulder, the flickering light of the smoldering Humvee continued to lick at the night sky. From directly behind him, he could hear the occasional shouts of directions amongst the fighters who had broken through the fence line, their commands occasionally interrupted by shrieks of surprise as one of the dead rose from the bloody pools congealing on the warm desert dirt and dusty asphalt. Gunshots rang out singularly from that location, and fierce firefights still rang out further to the west near the main gate. He keyed the mic deliberately, locking expectant eyes with Makenzie, who lay prone beside him, her right index finger wrapped around the trigger of her automatic weapon pointed up through the break in the solar panels. Even in the dim light, Jeff could see that her face was caked with gun powder residue and dirt, both of which flowed with sweat and swiped smudges to create a ghastly war paint across her determined visage.

"Are you familiar with base housing and the solar panels on the north-east corner of the base?" Jeff whispered.

"Affirmative—I've got eyes on that location now. I can see something burning just north of the panels—looks like it's in-between the panels and Golf Links," crackled the radio.

"Roger that sir, we're on the south side of the solar panels. The fire you see is what's left of our Humvee—targets are north of the solar panels and along the road—Golf Links," Jeff breathed.

From the air, the landmarks that the voice at the other end of the radio transmissions stood out distinctly in the night vision goggles. The fires burning north of the panels caused the goggles to gain-down, or wash out the visual scene near the bright lights, but Mike Ferrer could clearly identify the main surface street that ran along the base's northern perimeter, and in what little light reflected across the ground, he could make out the vast array of solar panels. Confident that the landmarks provided enough of a deconfliction measure to keep the friendly voice in his headphones clear from falling ordnance, he transmitted, "Ferret Zero-One is contact the target area. I'm not visual your exact position, but I've got the solar panels and will keep all ordnance north of that array. First pass will put bombs down on the street, and we'll adjust fire from there."

"Roger that," Jeff whispered hurriedly.

In the air, Mike Ferrer drew his thumb backwards on the transmit switch and instructed his formation to their roles in the attack. "Ferret flight, fighter-to-fighter, one-element: shooter cover, three-element, break off for your pre-planned attack. Three, you've got north of the six-five grid—make your attacks west to east—one element will hold over the base, south of the six-two grid and attack east-to-west. You're cleared off to our backup aux, maintain front button one for coordination." Colonel Ferrer had instructed his four A-10s to conduct break up into two-ship elements and conduct separate attacks, setting up larger swaths of airspace for the fighters to patrol while they prepared for their attacks in a manner that kept them away from each other.

"Three copies, we've got north of the six-five. Four, come up aft one-twenty-five point three-two-five."

"Four!"

"Good luck, brother, set divert bingo at three point five for Holloman," Mike called, establishing a minimum fuel requirement to enable the fighters to fly and land at a base in New Mexico. Drawing his attention into his own cockpit, he ran his fingers across the switches above his left knee and pointed the twin tubes in front of his eyes towards the head's up display to confirm he had selected the correct weapons delivery profile. Pulling up on a small conical switch beneath his left middle finger brought up delivery parameters on the small screen above his right knee, and he noted the entry altitudes and air speeds for the attack. He pushed the transmit button forward once again.

"Defender, I'll be in for the attack in less than a minute. You won't be able to see me, but I've got Golf Links in sight, and I can keep all ordnance north of the solar array—first pass will be right down the street. Once the bombs hit and you can analyze the situation, give me a correction in simple cardinal directions—do you understand?"

"Affirmative," Jeff whispered.

"Good, now get your ass down. Ferret One's in hot from the east!" Mike felt the familiar pounding in his chest that accompanied combat—it always seemed that the lead up to the first pass was always far more stressful than the actual attack—almost as if the additional time while he maneuvered to conduct the attack gave him just enough time to think about what he was about to do to allow the anxiety and increased heart rate to invade his senses. Satisfied with his position, he pushed the two throttles as far forward as they would go, and rolled the attack aircraft up onto her left wing.

Jeff noticed the sudden increasing whine of the twin turbojets announcing the commencement of the attack run. He threw himself down next to Makenzie and shouted, "Cover your ears, Little Mac! Keep your mouth open and GET YOUR HEAD DOWN!"

As he rolled out on the final approach for the attack run, Mike found himself surprised to pick up individual shadows moving through the street. He lined up the weapons release symbology, tracked the round pipper up through his desired aim point, and mashed down on the red weapons release button on the stick in his right hand. The large bombs left the aircraft with a noticeable _thunk_ and the entire airframe shuddered as fifteen-hundred pounds fell away in the two silver canisters tumbling towards the street. Mike pulled back sharply on the stick and established a climb away from the ground.

Even through eyes smashed shut, the brilliant flash of the napalm bombs burned straight through and turned Jeff's thoughts a brilliant hue of red. He expected the sledgehammer of a shockwave, but instead felt a dull thud push him away from the blast, only to feel the air harshly pulled from his lungs as the massive wall of flame drew an unearthly breath to sustain its hell-fired existence. Coughing against the choking stranglehold, he pulled himself nearly upright to observe the effects.

Mike Ferrer had never imagined that he would witness a napalm attack in his career, much less actually execute one. The burning wave spilled its way across the street and splashed the corners of the road—he lifted his NVGs away from his eyes—they proved nearly worthless against such a brilliant burst of light, and marveled at the dark red flames that flowed more like a fluid than any fire he had ever seen. "My God…" his headphones rang out with his wingman's voice.

Jeff tried to stretch his jaw to calm the massive ringing in his ears that jarred his every thought. His eyes watered from the oily stench of the smoke that seemed to envelope everything on the north side of the solar panels, and he choked as tried to refill his lungs with air. The bombs he'd seen overseas had always rocked him backwards as the blast wave rolled across his position—this one seemed to pull the air in the opposite direction and he felt exactly like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. With a whooping, coughing breath, his eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden burst of light, and he noticed the form standing and ambling awkwardly near the burning Humvee. The Lieutenant-Roberson _thing_ slowly drew itself upright, tendrils of flesh and blood dripping from his chin— _my God, had he—it—been eating the other airman?!_ A massive wave of overwhelming nausea racked Jeff's gut, and he heaved against the sight of his boss—former boss— _whatever the hell that thing was now—_ shuffling towards the sea of fire, drawn to it almost instinctually. He pulled the radio handset to his lips and wheezed, "Ferret, good hits—right on target." He dropped the handset and fell against the solar array, all strength seemingly flowing from his limbs—drawn by the oily flames a few hundred feet in front of him. As he struggled to catch his breath, he vaguely recognized Makenzie's voice asking him what in the hell they were going to do now. He closed his eyes and fell to his knees.

* * *

On pure survival instinct, Miguel dove into the ditch before him. The high-pitched whining of jet engines could mean only one thing—the single variable he had hoped that the military would not be able to bring to bear in time… their deadly fighter aircraft. When Gringo had asked about the possibility in hushed tones away from the other member, Miguel had laughed it off— "Those airplanes haven't flown for weeks, cabron! We get in there faster than they can react and we don't have to worry about it. Besides, what are they going to do? Bomb their own base? Their own city?"

 _That's exactly what those bendejos decided to do…_

He'd heard the jets before—everyone who lived in Tucson had heard them buzzing around the city as they flew through their training rotations. But this sound had been different, and reacting instinctively to the subtle differences in dangerous situations had not only gotten him his nickname, but more importantly, kept him alive. As the high-pitched howling rose in the skies above him, he leapt for the low ground, pulling his younger brother with him in less a protective move than to push him ahead to land atop him in the ditch.

A light whistling shrieked across the sky, and then the world around them erupted in a blinding flash of brilliant light and incapacitating heat. Their lungs emptied as the air around them simply vanished in a vacuum that pulled their very breath from their bodies. Miguel let go of his brother and rolled in pain, wheezing and gasping as he sought air that didn't seem to exist. Choking and drawing himself to his elbows, he peeled his eyes open against the scorching heat and stickiness attempting to seal his eyelids shut. Most of the deep red flames and thick black smoke seemed to burn east of his position near the solar panels. His heart sunk for a moment. _That was where the first assault should have breached the fences._ Crawling to the edge of the ditch, he began to recognize the forms stumbling almost-drunkenly through the flames. His seething anger burned hotter, and he focused the rage into a personal vendetta. Noticing that a good portion of the fenceline in front of him now lay shattered and broken, he grabbed his brother by the scruff of the neck and commanded, "Move!" He half-dragged himself, half pushed Manny through the scrub brush and twisted metal until they lay beneath the western edge of the solar panels. The whining of jet engines began rising again, and he forced Manny into the dirt, laying himself beside him. "Stay down," he hissed. "Here they come again!"

The rising pitch of the engines and the whistling of the bombs covered the whimpering sobs coming from the younger man. "Hold your breath!" Miguel shouted as the shrieking approach of the bombs wailed in his hears. The flash came from behind them this time—near the main gate, but the intense suction of air from his lungs burned just as much as it had during the first attack. Through his nearly blinding rage, he focused forward on the objective. _How ever many are alive, they know the plan. Get to the hospital and see how many made it._ He grabbed his sobbing sibling and pushed him forward. "Move—get to the houses. They won't bomb us there."

* * *

Brian Rawlins peeked around the corner of the auto skills building towards the main roadway through the center of the base. His eyes widened at the sight and his heart began beating faster—a feat he hadn't thought possible until the pounding began echoing in the back of his throat, forcing him to choke back the incredible urge to begin heaving the contents of his stomach onto the pavement before them.

Mass hysteria gripped the roadway.

Without the aid of functioning streetlights, many of the forms were little more than silhouettes; black shapes running… falling… screaming… voices raising and falling… primal screams of terror and pain pierced the warm night air. A hundred meters northeast, from the golf course clubhouse, the sudden rattle of automatic weapons fire barked into the din, and the crowds before him surged even faster, moving for whatever reason only they could fathom towards the flightline. Behind him, Trevor held tightly to the two little girls, softly hushing them against the incredible horrors roaring just out of sight.

Richard Kemp bounded up lightly beside Brian and, with his characteristically dry wit, smiled at the chaos before them and joked, "Yeah, just like Disneyland."

"How in the hell are we gonna get across that?" Brian thought out loud.

"Shit hoss, I came up here because I figgered you had the solution!" Richard laughed. Brian looked at him incredulously. "Seriously though," he said, "We might consider holin' up here in the hobby shop."

"I thought of that," Brian replied. "Too close to this madness—they'd be on top of us before we could do anything about it."

"Gonna push across?"

"Forward or backwards… only options," Brian mused.

"Gunfire thinned the crowd a bit," Richard observed.

"It did," Brian agreed. "But now I'm concerned about what might be coming out of whatever they were aiming at."

Richard looked around and shifted his gaze upward. "I got an idea," he whispered, pointing to the roof of the building they hid behind. "Me and Doorbell will get up on the roof and cover you."

"Me? Why me?" came the high-pitched voice of Rob Itzak from the shadows behind them.

"Cause yer skinny, and climbin' shouldn't be no problem, bean-pole," Richard shot back light-heartedly. "Besides, Ah seen you shoot, and if it weren't for gravity, ah'm not sure you could hit the planet! Now these heah mags only hold four rounds, so you gotta reload for me while ah'm coverin.'

"Yeah, sure. City-boy who hates camping… no problem… right up the building like freakin' Spiderman! Anything you say, Country," Rob protested, but Richard had already shoved a pair of night vision goggles into his hands and began pushing him towards the metal piping in the corner of the building.

"Don't mind the ones that are panicking—they're alive. Watch for the ones that look like lieutenants on a Friday night," Richard called over his shoulder as he began scurrying up the pole.

"What about you, dumbass?" Brian hissed.

"Ah gots more protection than ah'll ever need," Richard retorted. "Besides, it gets hairy and ah'll use Doorbell as bait!"

"Real nice, asshole," Rob grumbled. Brian shuffled back and pulled Amelia and Aubrey-Lynn into his arms and forced himself back to his feet under the added weight of the squirming nine-year-olds.

"Hold on as tight as you can, girls, we're going to run across the road here," he said as confidently as he could muster. He turned to his son and pressed the Beretta into his hands. "Trevor, you're our cover. If it staggers, shoot it in the head. Forget all that shit I taught you at the range about two to the chest—start with the head. Stay close buddy." The teenager looked back at him, and even in the dim light Brian could see that strange combination of determination and terror—the common reaction towards ones impending first foray into combat. "Level and down-range, right bud?" Trevor nodded in response and gripped the weapon with both hands. Brian couldn't help but notice that the young man's right index finger rested on the trigger guard. _Just like I taught him…_ he smiled. He grabbed the girls a little tighter and called to the rest of the group behind him, "Stay close—we're going to move to the right a little and keep some of those trees on this side of the street between us and the crowd. First hole I see we're pushing straight through—get to the right side of the tennis courts on the other side and then we're into the golf-course." Looking around one last time, he rose his voice slightly and repeated his charge to action as Country's .308 roared to life from the building's roof.

"Let's roll!"

* * *

Mackenzie struggled to catch her breath again as the second set of bombs splashed their torrential firestorm across the north side of the main gate. Her eyes burned and she fought to recognize her gunsights through the involuntary tears leaking like a sieve that blurred her vision and cast the world into nauseous hues between every blink. She felt the back of her armor pulled upward, and without warning, she was upright on wobbly feet shaking from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Jeff Ingram's face pressed in close to her own, and through the ringing in her ears, she acknowledged his commands.

"Let's move, kid. We're headed east—stay on the south-side of the panels. We're gonna work our way to the east fence, then head south—stay out of base housing and get down to the golf-course—it's a fallback point."

Mackenzie nodded, never pulling her watering eyes from her gunsights. His massive hand clapped her on the shoulder, and he pushed off, Mackenzie side-stepping from a ready crouch as she covered his vulnerable flank. As they trotted off, the added exertion and heavier breathing pulled more of the oily and noxious smoke into her lungs, bringing forth a round of hacking coughs. Ahead of her, Jeff fought the same bodily responses, and she heard him vomiting even as he continued jogging forward. The street to their eastern flank was as silent as a graveyard, and she lowered her rifle and began moving in a more natural jog to keep up with the man ahead of her. From the housing units to her right, she picked up occasional screams and random gunshots.

"Sergeant!" she wheezed. "Shouldn't we do something about that?" Jeff slowed to a walk and pointed to a break in the houses and an alleyway leading into the complex.

"We'll give it a look up there," he replied, out of breath. The toxic fumes in the air stole his breath, and even as someone who prided himself in his fitness level, he fought the wracking pain building in his lungs. "We don't wanna get bogged down in housing—no way to cover our flanks," he choked. "Besides, augmentees are responsible for that sector. We'll see what we can see from that alley, but we're gonna push along the fence."  
"Roger that, sarge," Mackenzie rasped.

"Cover the north side," Jeff commanded, as he sprinted across the open alley and took up a position on the far side. Mackenzie dropped to one knee and swung the muzzle of her M4 into the opening.

Her jaw dropped.

In the dim light of the streetlights powered by the solar panel generators, she saw three men clothed in all black, their faces wrapped by bandannas, cradling the distinctive form of AK-47 assault rifles. She drew a gasped breath to issue the warning, but Jeff beat her to it.

"Three tangos, sort by your side!" he commanded. Without a word in response, she drew her gunsights instinctively to the first man's chest, then adjusted the aimpoint to his head and squeezed gently on the trigger. The M4 barked in obedience to her command, and the man jerked backward, a pink mist exploding from where his head had been a moment prior. Before the other two could react, Jeff's weapon growled with two additional bodies collapsed lifelessly to the asphalt.

"Check 'em?" Mackenzie asked.

"Negative—keep moving. We're likely to draw a crown if we press in," Jeff replied. Mackenzie nodded to herself and sprinted across the alley, throwing herself to the ground behind Jeff's large frame. "We got about a quarter-mile to go kid," he whispered. "Fam-camp is on the other side of housing—that'll be the next stop. Stay close to the walls—we'll stop every fifty meters or so for thirty seconds and listen—so long as we don't hear nothin' we keep moving. You with me?"

Mackenzie nodded, a sudden nausea working its way into her throat, and without warning, she twisted over and began vomiting uncontrollably. When her stomach muscles finally relaxed, she leaned back on her knees and turned slowly to her mentor, who clasped his large hand on her diminutive shoulder. She expected an admonishment, but was surprised by the understanding look that spread across his face. In the darkness, his dark skin made his features indecipherable, but his eyes shone.

"I puked five times after my first fight," he whispered. "Once it all settled down, all the emotions came flooding over me, all at once. I tried not to let anyone see it, but you can't hide that shit. Crusty-ass master sergeant—a 'Nam and Gulf War One vet—he put his hand on my shoulder just like this, and he told me that it had been the same for him. We all go through it, Little Mac," he sighed. "But I'll be real honest with you—it's gonna get harder. Not because the feelings keep coming…" he trailed off slightly. "But when the feelins _stop_ comin'—that's even harder."

Mackenzie's stomach retched again, and she doubled over, dry-heaving into the mud at her knees. Jeff's hand stayed warmly on the base of her neck. "Take yer time, kid," he whispered. "We'll go when you good an' ready."

* * *

The force of the impact spun him around and threw him to the ground. Feeling the world turn sideways in a white flash of pain, Brian barely had enough balance to twist just enough to catch the force of the fall squarely on his shoulder blades and keep the two girls above him. The crack of the curb against his spine sent a shock through his system, and his arms fell open, sending the two girls sprawling in opposite directions. He tried to roll and reach for them, but another bolt of lightning down his back erupted, and he screamed through the gut-wrenching pain now shaking through him. A heavy foot smashed down on his left hand, and the new spike in pain caused him to roll in that direction, sending new waves of throbbing through his back. Feet flew in every direction—a pair kicked his legs and stumbled over him, dropping a heavy weight across his calves.

"Dad, get up!" A hand on his bicep. He curled and turned towards the familiar voice… Trevor, kneeling over him… protectively… his free arm wrapped around his sister, who buried her face in his chest… the barrel of the Berretta still pointed outward… Brian grunted and pulled himself to his knees, trying to keep one shoulder lowered against the onslaught of panicked knees that continued to flow around them. A single thought pierced the fog and sent his heart racing…

 _Aubrey-Lynn._

Against the shooting pain, he spun and saw the child's pink sweater a few feet from him. Pulling free from his son, he lurched towards the little girl, reaching to grab a handhold on that sweater and pull her back into his arms… and the world went black again… A massive weight fell upon his arm, and a heavy dark shape slammed into his face, sending new slivers of white-hot pain through his mind as his nose collapsed against the new blow. The shape twisted and squirmed, and horrified voices screamed around him. With a panicked surge of adrenaline, he pushed against the weight with the full force of his screaming body. Rising to his knees, he saw the shape shift before him, and the horrified face of a middle-aged woman came into focus. She screamed and writhed hysterically, freeing herself from the tangled mess of spastic limbs thrashing in the panicked pile.

Brian forced his way through the chaos, and again stretched his arm towards the tiny form in the pink sweater. As another wave of crashing and disoriented people knocked him backwards, he gritted his teeth, lowered his shoulders, and threw himself through the pulsating mass. Screams of shock and pain as he bulled through them were ignored, his only thought locked onto the small girl before him. Coming within feet of his objective, he again reached for her, only to see the little girl with the platinum curls that almost glowed in the dim light swept up by dark shapes. He screamed her name, only to find his view again blocked by the faceless dark masses flowing around him. Slowing his charge for just a moment caused the sea of flesh to pick him up, and he fell to the opposite curb, Trevor instantly appearing over his shoulder. The teenager held his sister protectively while still brandishing the pistol over his father's head. Brian's mind began to fog over as the adrenaline suddenly slowed, allowing the confusion of the moment to mix with the intense pain still coursing through his back. His shoulders froze and began to constrict, the pain pulling his face into a horrific grimace as he struggled to push himself back onto his feet. "Aubrey Lynn…" he cried.

"I'll get her," Trevor stated resolutely, pushing Amelia into her father's arm. Brian pulled his sobbing daughter close, and immediately reached for Trevor with his good hand as a new sight chilled him to the bone. The reason for the crowd's instant rise in panic became suddenly clear.

A stumbling mass of growling and gurgling forms began sliding down the street towards them.

Even in the darkness, the wet stains dripping from their chests told the story—the masses mowed down in the earlier bursts of gunfire began to stand and claw their way through the masses of refugees flooding the streets. From across the street, Richard's rifle continued to bark, dropping the new threats one by one, but they continued to amble through the crowd faster than a single weapon could drop them. Brian pulled back on his son.

"No, wait—too dangerous…" he wheezed.

"Dad, I can do this—" Trevor protested as Brian struggled to his feet.

"Stay with your sister—" Brian started, and then yanked Trevor backwards as a bloodied and mangled hand reached out of the darkness, pulling behind it a hissing and burbling grey-faced ghoul. He pulled his children backwards, and the concrete curb behind them caught their ankles, tumbling all three to the ground. The thing followed, reaching down towards Brian. With as little light as there was, Brian could clearly see the thing's eyes—milky white and drained of any color that might have once been there… the face grey and shimmering lightly… almost waxy in appearance… a small trickle of blackish bile dripping from the corner of its mouth…. "Shoot it, son," he whispered… "Shoot it! SHOOT IT!" Brian snapped his head towards Trevor, and realized that the boy was twisted over sideways, crawling towards the pistol that he had dropped when they all stumbled. A sudden burst of incapacitating fear ripped through Brian, and he tried to push Amelia further from the stumbling thing reaching for them. _If it comes for me, maybe she and her brother can get away…_ The fingers reached for his throat, and he sickly noted that there were more of them behind this first ghastly creature… _oh, shit,_ he thought with a sudden profound sadness… _there's too many of them…_. He opened his mouth to scream one final warning… one last opportunity to command Trevor to scoop us his sister and run… when the ghoul's head snapped to the side, a black geyser exploding outward. The thing slumped to the ground, partially pulled by the force of the impact. The trailing dead found similar impacts, and Brian finally recognized the rhythmic reports of a pistol above him and to the left.

As the last zombie in the group fell, a gloved hand appeared at Brian's chest, and he looked up to see a pair of night vision goggles sweeping the area before them. The man was fully kitted-up in combat regalia and wore the customized helmet of a pararescue specialist.

"You alright?" came the gravelly voice from above.

"Yeah," Brian struggled. "There's a girl—a little girl—we lost her in that crowd." Without a word, the man forged forward into the remnants of the crowd, pistol at the ready. Brian began shuffling backwards towards the protective wall of the tennis courts—while only providing cover on one side, it was a flank they didn't have to protect. Curling against the chain-link fence, he pulled his children close, running his good hand across Amelia. "You okay?" The little girl looked at him with tear-stained cheeks and nodded slowly. "Trevor, you good?" The teenager nodded slowly, and Brian noticed for the first time that the muzzle of the weapon he kept pointed outward was twitching in the young man's shaking hands.

From across the street, Richard and Rob snaked their way through the remaining throngs of people still running in every direction. In the shadows of the parking lot to their side, he began to see the huddled remnants of their group… small clusters slowly rejoining in fewer numbers that they had had just minutes ago. Richard stood over Brian and slung his rifle over his shoulder.

"Jesus, bro. Where did that come from?"

Brian struggled to speak, and coughed against the growing heaviness in his chest. He spat and noticed blood mixed among the spittle hitting the floor.

"Aubrey-Lynn… I dropped her… got knocked down… gotta find her…" he gasped. As the words slipped from his lips, the armored-up pararescueman appeared again at the edge of the tennis courts. As all eyes met his gaze, he shook his head slowly.

"You guys part of the fallback plan?" he whispered.

"Yeah, from the reserve A-10 squadron," Richard replied.

"I'm Sherman," the man offered. "You guys good? How many you got with you?"

"We had about forty or so. After what just happened, I don't know, man," Richard returned.

"Who's in charge?" Sherman asked.

"I am," Brian coughed.

"Alright, get your people to the fallback point—I've got a handful of my guys out here—we'll find your girl," he ordered.

"She's my responsibility—I've got to help," Brian choked weakly. Sherman turned to Richard and Rob.

"Get him to the fallback point—we'll be there shortly and tend to any of your injured—get moving!" With the order, Brian felt a strong hand pull him up by his armpit, and the pain shook through his body again as his head swam under the swirling fog still clouding his conscious thoughts. Richard's voice began fading to the darkness around him as he fought to stay balanced atop wobbly and unsteady knees.

"Doorbell, gather up the groups on the far side of the lot—push out in that direction. The Boneyard is two-holes on the opposite side, and activity looks light over here."

As they began ambling towards the safety of the aircraft storage area, screams began rising from the flight line again. Flames reached for the sky on the far side of the passenger terminal, and turboprop engines began howling as the large C-130 transports began moving away from the chaos. The panicked masses followed them, drawing the dead within their exodus. The transport planes kept their loading ramps open as long as possible, trying to enact any act of humanity possible once the gravity of the situation became understood. Full to capacity, the large aircraft started moving, but the crowds followed… pursuing hope beyond thoughts of safety or rationality… Gunfire continued to echo across the base… fierce firefights erupting amongst the chaos… fueling the panic and fear as bodies dropped to pavement only to stand again and stumble forward.

* * *

Johnny Ringo threw himself down at the first cracks of gunfire in front of him, and rolled down into the sandy pit. After the bombs had started falling, he had found himself alone, and he moved away from the massive flood of terrified civilians that had poured through the holes opened in the base perimeter. At one point, he had tried to maneuver through base housing to see if any of the gang's breaching elements had broken through on the north-east side. He had turned a corner and recognized three of his compadres gathered about a block away, and had decided to link up with them when all three were dropped by unseen snipers. He retreated quickly to the shadows, and made up his mind to remain hidden as long as possible. Once he had reached the golf course, things seemed to calm down in his general vicinity, though he could hear the constant barking of weapons all along the main base thoroughfare, mixed with blood-curdling screams of a hysterical mob.

He had slowed to a deliberate evasion as the clinic came into view, still illuminated by a set of emergency floodlights ringing the perimeter. Cautiously observing from afar, he started to notice movement, and recognized that a few of the Dons had begun to move boxes of items towards a pickup truck idling near the pharmacy entrance. Smiling, he moved to step from the shadows and run towards his comrades, when the angry clatter of small arms erupted from a quarter mile to his right. He dove for the sand trap.

After burying his face in the sand and squirming into the soft earth, he realized that the firefight did not involve his location. Crawling forward to peer over the lip of the indention, he watched the fierce winks of light coming from before him; the heavier cracks of the AK-47s to his left, and the quicker snaps of the security forces defenders and their M4s from the right. _Dammit,_ he thought. _I've got to get across that!_ He saw that his comrades in the clinic were pinned down from this angle—there would be no way to get that truck out with the withering fire streaking out from the golf-course. As if they understood this fact at the same time, he watched as the group broke into smaller elements and began laying down random covering fire from the edges of the building while a couple of other figures retrieved the boxes from the truck and ran back into the building. _Best way out now is from the opposite end of the building,_ he observed. Noticing that the elements continuing to fire had taken up decent defensive postures with heavy cover, he figured that was exactly what they intended to do. A pang of desperation swept over him: _there's no way to get to them directly,_ he thought. _I gotta go back up and around—I'll be a sitting duck trying to get across all that open ground!_ Realizing that any window of opportunity to get to his comrades before they departed was quickly closing, Johnny drew himself up to sprint back to the northeast under what little cover the family recreation area could provide, when two dark forms materialized out of the darkness and slammed him back into the sand trap.

 _"_ What the fuck?!" A deep, heavy voice.

"Shit, there's someone in here!" A higher pitched voice—a woman? Then a red light in his eye, the lens cap so close to his face that it wiped out everything behind it. He flinched backwards instinctively and raised his hands before his face. The light lowered, and he slowly looked out from a clenched eye, right down the barrel of an M4.

"Easy, kid, he's alive, and he's one of us," came the booming voice, but the assault rifle didn't move.

"What are you doing out here alone, soldier?" The higher pitched voice, deliberate and resolute. Johnny raised his hands disarmingly and blinked quickly, trying to regain his night-vision.

"I… we… got separated…" he stammered, beginning to shiver in the warm air. "We… overrun… too many of them… who are you?"

"Jeff," the booming voice blurted curtly, and Johnny began to see that the voice belonged to a massive black man who had already turned away from him slightly to observe the battle before them again. "This heah firecracker is Little Mac—"

"Mackenzie," the woman interrupted, and promptly lowered her weapon and turned towards the clinic as well.

"Where's your gear?" Jeff asked.

"L-lost it… trampled… stampede of… of… people?" Johnny mumbled. Jeff nodded, and Mackenzie snorted softly. He could barely make out what she muttered, but understood her disgust nonetheless.

"Fucking weekend warriors…".

"Good position to open up some more covering fire for the defenders off to our right," Jeff observed. "Here, take this," he stated, pressing a Beretta into Johnny's trembling hand.

 _Is this happening?_ Johnny wondered as the two defenders crouched at the lip of the sand trap, their backs undefended and exposed to him. He checked the weapon's safety off, and wondered if he could get two shots off to the think sliver of skin between their body armor and helmets before either of them could turn their rifles toward him, when the woman popped up to one knee and swung her weapon to the left.

"Tangoes egressing in that truck!" She hissed. Johnny stood and looked to the clinic as a lone vehicle sped north, away from the clinic. A second and third truck quickly followed, and he realized that the sporadic covering fire had ceased.

 _They're leaving me,_ he thought, his worries suddenly interrupted by the sharp reports of the woman's M4 on full automatic, angry red tracers arcing out from the muzzle to embed themselves in the metal of the vehicles that only increased in speed. The trigger clicked as the last round exited the barrel, and she raised the weapon just long enough to drop the magazine. Her hand froze on the pouch behind her hip.

"I'm out," she spat. Johnny watched the tail lights fade into the darkness, quickly moving out of sight as they sped towards the breached base perimeter. _He was alone_. He looked solemnly at the two defenders before him and realized that his former status as a National Guard member represented his only hope at survival.

He clicked the pistol's safety back down, and whispered, "Now what do we do?"

* * *

Passing through the fence line into the Boneyard, Brian felt a sudden sense of security, offset only by his ever-increasing accusatory sense of guilt at the unknown status of Aubrey-Lynn. Supported on one side by Trevor, he kept his good hand clamped to Amelia on the other, and together they limped across the uneven ground between the silent rows of aircraft. Amelia complained softly, repeated asking to be carried… that her feet hurt… and _when are we going to be there?_ Brian wheezed another half-hearted response, and Richard quickly jogged up beside them.

"Hey buddy," he grunted, "You want me to carry her?"

"That would be great," Brian whispered, "If she'll let you."

"Ahh, come on now, darlin'" Richard joked. "How about lettin' Mister County put you up on these shoulders?" Amelia drew back in the dark, and squeezed her daddy's hand tighter. Seeing her pull away, Richard bent over and thumped his chest a few times with both hands. "See now? You'd be the luckiest little girl out here, darlin'—ridin' on a gorilla and all!" He hooted and whooped a few times quietly, and the child smiled at his antics.

"It's okay, sweetie—Mister Country will keep you safe," Brian offered. "I'm right here beside you guys." And she slowly released his hand and climbed up Richard's back. "You're good with kids," he called.

"Yeah, too bad Ah ain't never had any of my own," Richard mused.

"At least none that you know of," Brian chided.

"True," Richard agreed.

"I'm sure there's plenty of red-headed kids running around South Georgia that don't quite know why they're always inclined to act like a hyperactive gorilla."

"Good genes, there. That's what that is," Richard laughed as they pushed deeper into the storage lot. Behind them, the sounds of gunfire sputtered with less intensity, though the pockets of flames still leapt in growing pyres across the landscape. Further north, well outside the perimeter of the gate, the whistling thumps of the falling bombs had ceased, but the glowing flickers smoldering beneath the columns of smoke told the tale of a city ablaze. The small group marched on silently.


	5. Chapter 5: The Havens

**Chapter Five: The Havens**

Quiet static hissed from the small, hand-held radio, but no voices answered his repeated queries. Looking down over the city of Tucson, he pulled impatiently at his long grey mustache and fiddled with the transmit switch as yet another fireball climbed silently into the air, followed much later by the dull thunk of the far-off explosion.

"Kit-Kat, are you there?" He called into the radio, a tinge of desperation creeping into the edges of his voice. "Kit-Kat, can you hear me?" He used the nickname he'd developed for his niece over the course of her life—she always chided him when he insisted on using her actual name over the airwaves… _It's not smart in these days, Uncle Elliot,_ she would argue. And so, he called her _Kit-Kat_ , and that seemed to placate the young lady. Another fireball erupted and began to reach for the sky, and he was glad that his wife had not come to the overlook tonight, though he knew that the echoing thumps and the flickering backdrop of the city aflame would carry her to his location soon.

"Kit, if you can hear me but can't answer, we're ready for you up here. Bring everyone you can—just get up here sweetheart. I'll be listening, and I'll keep trying to raise you on this frequency at the times we talked about." He released the transmit switch and felt a wave of indescribable hopelessness rising in him, along with a sudden urge to tell her one last time how much she meant to him and her aunt…. He pushed the button down again and whispered, "I love you kid." He collapsed backwards against the large rock and watched the city and base begin to burn. He watched the fires begin to spread through the downtown streets and up one of the larger buildings. He watched the lights of the A-10s overhead circle sadly before committing their line of travel to the east. He watched until the explosions stopped at the base… on the flight line… on the edges of the base, and he wiped the silent tears from his eyes. Picking up the white ten-gallon hat by his side, he stood and offered the best prayer he could muster from deep within his heart.

"Be with them all, Lord," he whispered. "We're here, kid." He placed the hat on his head, and slowly turned to shuffle up the old trail leading back to the tiny town of Summerhaven.

Elliott Strange had lived on Mount Lemmon for most of his life, save for his stint in the Army and a tour of duty in Vietnam. Summerhaven thrived on tourism; offering a break from the oppressive Arizona heat in the summer, and a wintry escape on peaks and ski trails capped with snow for the short desert winters. High above the city, accessible only by a pair of long and winding roads, the village now represented an outpost against the panicked plague that had swept through society. With few full-time residents, and fewer public services, the town had initially emptied—most of the permanent residents choosing to venture out in search of their loved ones in the cities below. Slowly, a trickle of outsiders made their way up the mountain, most of them very fearful and not quite sure why they had decided to go up the mountain, but shakily confident in the fact that they had escaped the urban horrors, at least temporarily. Elliot climbed steadily up the winding, rocky trail, his old boots bracing his old ankles and creaking knees against the tiny ravines and crevices cut through the rocky dirt. With the first vestiges of the town beginning to peek from behind the towering Douglas Firs and Arizona Ponderosa Pines, he recognized a familiar silhouette at the trail head, arms crossed before her, and her right foot tapping impatiently.

"Did you talk to her?" Helen Strange asked, her words laced with worry. Elliott shook his head sadly and embraced her silently. She kept her arms crossed, but buried her head into his chest.

"What's happening down there? What are those noises?"

"You don't want to know."

"Is the city burning?" she sobbed. He didn't answer her, only pulling her tighter. The absence of a response welled forth more forceful weeping, and she shuddered softly in his arms. He ran a leathery finger down the side of her face, pulling slowly through the wrinkled lines of a lifetime chiseled into her features. She had always been a beautiful woman, but the soft edges of her physique were offset by the determined nature and ferocity that always shone in her eyes. In an instant, the remote mountaintop haven began to feel like an isolated prison floating in a sea of uncertainty.

"She'll be alright," he finally whispered. "She's tough—always has been. Got that from your side of the line."

Helen smiled stiffly. "You're a pretty tough old codger yourself, Elliot Strange." She pulled back slightly and raised her eyes to his. "The tourists are asking a lot of questions—I think they're really scared."

"I think there's going to be a lot more of that before this all calms down," Elliot observed, his eyes rising towards the town.

"That man, Tinsdale—he's starting to make a lot of noise, and that's making the others more scared," Helen began.

"Sonuvabitch," Elliot muttered under his breath at the mention of the man's name. Hank Tinsdale, a short, portly, balding man with a permanently etched grimace on his face, was one of the group of roughly forty "tourists," as Helen called them, who had arrived in Summerhaven shortly after the quarantine orders had come down in the cities. Some were regulars—they recognized the friendly faces of Tucsonians who routinely escaped the heat or sought the snow. Others were unfamiliar—frightened, panicked faces and wide eyes frantically searching for direction.

But Hank Tinsdale arrived sourly in the midst of returning tourists and frightened first-timers willing to attempt any escape from the madness leaking into all corners of society. Mannerisms remained cordial between the old and new residents sheltering in the town for a few days, and it seemed that everyone made a concerted attempt at normalcy. Helen ensured the restaurant continued turning out three meals a day, and Elliott opened seasonal cottages to the visitors free of charge. When the power grid fell offline and the generators started, the first tinges of panic began to swell. When the ATMs stopped dispensing cash, and wallets came up empty, the fear spread. And above all of the whimpers and frightened questions, one voice continually rose to question the attempts at maintaining order; Hank Tinsdale.

The old soldier, and now the oldest resident of Summerhaven, Elliot Strange stepped forward in a caretaker role for the community. Helen jokingly referred to him as "Mayor," and the term stuck. The few permanent residents knew him well, and trusted his judgment. As the troubles began to brew, Elliott began dredging up his army training from almost a half-century earlier, and applied order to the chaos seeping into every facet of daily existence. After ensuring that the newcomers had adequate billeting, he turned to the currency issue. With money unavailable, save for what had already been put into the system in the town, he decided that they would immediately ration and deliver the stockpiled food from the few eateries through daily meals in the town's largest restaurant. A number of tourists with needed skillsets stepped up to fill the gaps left by those who had fled, and a semblance of order replaced the panic.

Except, Hank Tinsdale didn't agree with the management decisions.

After the third day, he began to complain about the repetitive menu and lack of selection, while his wife, a diminutive and polite woman, would lower her eyes in embarrassment at his ever-louder protests. Hank was dissatisfied with his lack of inclusion in the decision-making process, and took any opportunity to remind anyone within earshot that he had been an elected city councilman and had served on the Tucson School Board for a number of years. As his complaints remained on the periphery, Elliott mostly ignored the rants and kept his steely-blue eyes on the angry man.

It was a good two mile walk back into the heart of Summerhaven, but Elliott welcomed the time alone with Helen, allowing the silence of the cool mountain air to calm and collect his thoughts. Entering the sparse town, the multitude of smells assailing his nose brought a sudden warmth to his soul. The sweet pungent aroma of cookies wafted from the Cookie Cabin, and the sharp scent of many wood-burning fires provided the same welcomed comfort he had known his entire life. Approaching the restaurant, he first caught a whiff of fire-seared steaks and hearty bean soups blanketed within the smoky hues of the cooking fireplaces now ringing the facility. He smiled for a moment, transfixed by the nature of a scene reminiscent of chuck-wagon suppers on the Great Plains, until he saw the anxiously jittering crowd in the parking lot. As the palpitating mass swayed, Elliott caught sight of the short but highly animated Hank Tinsdale at the center. He sighed deeply, felt Helen's grip on his upper arm tighten, and trudged stoically towards the gathering, ears strained against the growing chatter to decipher Tinsdale's words. Drawing to the edge of the crowd unnoticed, he began to recognize the angry man's ravings.

"… and I want to know just what in the hell is going on down in the city, don't you?" he spat. A number of the tourists in the crowd agreed, and Elliott could feel the agitation rising. "Any why in the hell can we not just leave? Why are they keeping us here?"

"No one's forcing you to stay here, Mister Tinsdale," Elliott boomed, maneuvering himself forward as politely but deliberately as possible. "We welcomed you to our community, but you're as free to leave as you were to arrive."

"Sounds great, cowboy, but most of our cars ain't got any gas—there ain't any gas stations up here, but you sure as hell have some gasoline squirreled away—you gonna let us fill up and go?"

"The gasoline you're speaking of is our emergency reserves for the town, not for—"

"I SURE AS HELL CALL THIS AN EMERGENCY, WOULDN'T YOU?" Tinsdale screamed, his balding head turning a violent crimson.

"Sir, if you'll just calm down—" Elliott started.

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN—WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THE CITY? WHAT WAS ALL THAT NOISE? THESE PEOPLE DESERVE ANSWERS AND THEY'RE GETTING SCARED!"

"They're getting scared because you're scaring them!" Helen fired back before Elliott could level his hand before her calmly.

"Mr. Tinsdale, I don't know what exactly is going on down there," Elliott began.

"The city's on fire!" a voice called out shrilly from the darkness.

"The Government's bombing the city!" yelled another.

"Is that true?" Asked an unseen voice, as a wave of sobbing and gasps spread through the crowd. Elliott stepped forward and tried to place himself between the crowd and Tinsdale, raising his hands above his head in the attempt to provide some semblance of calming reassurance to the agitated visitors.

"Listen, listen—let me tell you what I saw—that's all I can do," Elliott sighed. "I had someone at the base that I'd been in contact with—my niece—but she hasn't been up on the radio for the last two days." He looked around solemnly at the silent crowd. "There appears to have been some kind of attack on the Air Force base—there were explosions and a lot of gunfire." Another round of gasps popped, and a few ladies dropped their heads and began sobbing noticeably. "After that," he dropped his voice, "something else happened—it looks like the Air Force was dropping incendiary weapons in downtown Tucson."

"What's that mean—in-sin-you-ary?" Someone panned.

"Firebombs," Elliott whispered, his own eyes falling. After looking at his boots for a few moments, he raised his head to speak again, stopped by the pure aghast look on Hank Tinsdale's face.

"Give us gasoline for our cars," the round face hissed.

"I can't do that, sir," Elliott returned.

"You can, and you will!" Hank's voice rose. A small cacophony of agreement simmered amongst the crowd.

"Mr. Tinsdale, that gasoline is powering the generators that are keeping this town alive—you're welcome to take whatever you brought up the mountain with you—consolidate it, join forces," he lowered his voice and locked eyes with the red-faced man. "Use whatever you can share amongst yourselves of what you brought with you, but you're not touching Summerhaven's emergency gasoline supply." He dragged each word out slowly and seriously, never dropping his eyes from Hank Tinsdale's, whose mouth began to twitch in a nervous tick of a smile. Sensing the volatile tension, Helen sprang forward and faced the crowd.

"Listen, we have plenty of food—plenty of water, and we're all sheltered comfortably. Whatever happened down there—they'll figure it out—we'll figure it out. We have enough supplies to stay safe here for a long time," she sputtered, wishing she sounded more confident than she felt. After a moment's silence, a man spoke from the back.

"She's right—I don't know what's goin' on down there, but it scares the hell out of me—"

"What about family?" Hank spat. "What about friends? Colleagues? The people of TUCSON!"

"I don't know, sir," the man whispered. "I just don't know. But I know that my family has a roof over our head, and these fine people are kind enough to share their food with us."

Helen nodded slowly, and Elliott moved to stand directly beside her. "Whatever those things are down there—"

"The DEAD?" Hank scoffed.

"Whatever they are," Elliott continued. "I don't think they can make it up here—not up the side of the mountain, anyways. And we can monitor the switchbacks on the southeast side of town just fine—nothing's coming up here without our knowledge and permission." Sensing a moment's agreement, Helen stepped forward again.

"Dinner's ready—please line up and get yourselves a hot plate." As many of the people began shuffling towards the line of steaming pots over hot wood grills, she noticed that a couple of the men walked past Tinsdale and whispered something in his ear, to which he nodded. They patted his shoulder and walked away. Tinsdale continued glaring at Elliot, then abruptly turned and walked down the street, his wife stumbling behind him in protest as to whether they'd be waiting for a meal.

Another grizzled old resident of the town walked up to Elliott and clapped a big hand on the man's back. "You handled that well, hoss," he grunted. Elliott nodded and sighed, feeling the tension of the moment pour from his shoulders. He looked over to his old friend.

"Tomorrow, we'll inventory the gasoline and see if we can't spare a few gallons. If some of them really want to fill up and leave, it might just be smarter to let them out before they can infect the whole bunch.

"Guessin' it depends on how much is there though, raht?"

Elliott nodded slowly, feeling Helen's hand slip into his own again.

"Didja eat yet, Bob?" she asked.

"No ma'am, figgered I'd let these good folks go first," he replied.

"We might wanna consider puttin' together a huntin' party in the near future," Elliott observed. "Do us good to stockpile a little extra meat."

"Good excuse to get the guns out too, eh?" Bob smiled. Elliott turned to him, a solemn and determined look still blanketing his leathery face.

"Something like that," he whispered.

* * *

The summer air cooled slightly in the waning hours before the dawn, and the collected footsteps of their small crowd crunched softly in the now-still night. Brian's back still sent pounding complaints from his shoulders to his ankles with every other step, and he felt Trevor beginning to sag beneath his weight. The going had been slow, but thankfully uneventful. He had felt the abject disappointment in his son as much as he had heard it when the first giant transport planes came into view.

"These the one's we're going to?" Trevor had whispered.

"No," Brian replied. "Keep going—there's more of them on the far side." Trevor's shoulder beneath his father sagged a little more, but they kept walking. Passing along the southern side of the main regeneration and storage administrative area, Brian noticed the long row of Humvees and wondered to himself just how many of them might be operational. They slowly crossed the bridge over Kolb Road and the silence of the normally-thunderous roadway struck them all individually.

In the east, the horizon had already begun to lighten from black to the first vestiges of purplish-blue, and another set of massive T-shaped aircraft tails silhouetted before them.

"Just on the other side of those monsters, darlin' lady," Richard's voice sprang from the darkness in hushed tones.

"I don't like monsters," Amelia's sleepy voice slipped out in return.

"Neither do I," Richard laughed quietly. "That's why Ah never wanted t'fly those big ole' thangs!"

"They're not really monsters, are they Mister Country?" Amelia's voice laced with sudden concern amongst her exhausted words.

"No, no, little one," Richard strained slightly under the weight of the ten-year old. "Ah just call 'em that 'cause they're so damned big…" He caught himself suddenly, "…err, Ah mean, so doggone big."

"Don't worry about it," Brian called. "She's a fighter-pilot's daughter—she's heard much worse." The third grouping of giant airplanes appeared before them, the huge tails reaching for the lightening sky. Brian breathed a sigh of relief, felt Trevor's shoulders perk up slightly, and then froze as a voice hissed at them from ahead.

"Desert!" The unseen voice commanded. The group froze, and Richard fumbled slightly with Amelia while reaching for his rifle with his free hand.

"Lightening," Brian choked with as much volume as he could muster. Gravel crunched beneath a group of new footfalls approaching them.

"Pabst, is that you?" Called the voice, taking an edge of familiarity.

"Damn glad you bothered to read the rules of engagement for this little exercise," Richard whispered. Drawing closer, Ruben Alvarado came into focus, followed by a pair of airmen in full combat gear, rifles at the ready position across their chests.

"Ruben," Brian coughed. "What the hell are you doing out here already?"

"After Colonel Ferrer put us in Delta, I brought a squad out here to do one last check of the site, and then all hell broke loose. What the hell happened out there? We haven't been able to raise anyone on the command frequencies for the last six hours!"

"Someone attacked the base at the same time we were launching the jets," Brian started, then realized that Ruben hadn't been part of the night's combat briefings. "We were ordered to firebomb the overrun parts of the city," he sighed. "'Bout the same time, the refugees in the safe zones came flooding in—sounded like car bombs hit the north side… it's still chaos through the base." His voice trailed off, and he shifted his weight again in the feeble attempt to stave off another round of lightning strikes down his spine.

"Jesus," Ruben whispered. "We saw the explosions, but no one would answer on the net. Come on, let's get you guys bedded down," he offered, relieving Trevor and sliding his own shoulder under Brian's arm. Under the lightening dawn, Brian began to notice the sea of camouflage netting that had sprung up between all of the massive transport airplanes—intricate corridors and walls designed to block both the sun and any prying eyes that might befall the new haven from any direction. A quiet hum of generators reverberated quietly, and Brian noticed the trenches dug to hold the equipment, muffling their droning din and drawing the exhaust fumes away from the aircraft openings. "We got the jets opened up and rigged, but we couldn't get their ramps down," Ruben started almost apologetically. "—had to improvise a bit, so watch your step coming up," he called as he guided them up the wooden inclines leading into the cavernous airplane.

Inside, rows of palletized water and food lined the cargo bay, and blankets strung from wires crossing the hold carved out individual rooms equipped with cots and olive-drab sleeping bags. Richard slowly lowered Amelia onto the makeshift bed, and pulled a rolled towel from the corner to serve as a pillow for the child. Brian thanked him softly, and strained to kneel next to his daughter. Stroking her small, dirt-streaked forehead, he began whispering a song he had sung to her every night since the day she'd been born. Her eyes softened and closed, but her lips moved with the slightest whisper, "Daddy, is Aubrey-Lynn gonna be here soon?"

"Soon, angel," he whispered, a sudden spear of guilt plunging through his gut, and his head dropped to his daughter's chest.

"Mommy too?"

"Yes, angel," he lied.

"Please keep singing," she sighed, her voice already drifting away into a restless slumber.

* * *

Jeff Ingram sat midway up the slope of his modified foxhole—a sand trap in the base golf-course—only his eyes and helmet peeking above the level grass at the edge, and surveyed the scene around him. At the bottom of the sand trap, Mackenzie snored softly, curled tightly around the M4 rifle cradled in her arms. Across the pit, Johnny Gonsalvez, the National Guardsman who kept calling himself _Ringo,_ sat cross-legged and slumped over, his head jerking every few minutes as he lurched out of a fitful sleep that he futilely fought. From across the course, the muffled whispers of another group of defenders that they had linked up with after the fight drifted across the hazy landscape now lightening with the first hues of dawn. The sharp, pungent scent of cordite still punctuated the air, and a muffled moaning from the west rolled through the shadows. Terrified screams occasionally rang out from the same direction, striking his nerves with an icy sliver of apprehension and adrenaline. He strained his eyes into the darkness, praying for the dawn to illuminate the world around him. His night vision goggles allowed him to peer into the blackness, but the green-hued world inside of those lenses only added to the growing dread in his gut, and every unseen shriek that rose into the night only fueled that uneasiness. Thankfully, they never seemed to get closer, but the blood-curdling shouts and unnatural moaning drew shivers across his neck and back. Mackenzie stirred, and he looked at his watch: 4:03 am. Her eyes flew open with a start, and she instinctively pulled her rifle into her chest.

"Yer alright, kid," he whispered.

"Is it my watch?" She creaked, her words laced with sleep.

"Naw, Little Mac—I got this," he returned, but she had already slid up the side of the sand trap to consider the terrain around them.

"What's our plan?"

"I was just thinkin' 'bout that," he replied. "I think we best head west, get back to the shop and see who's alive over there—rearm and resupply," he offered.

"Is your wife there?" Mackenzie asked, and Jeff's eyes dropped.

"She was," he started. "Last night when we came on shift…" his words fell off as his mind drifted. "There's no easy way to get back to that side of the base," he observed to himself. "Night's the best time to move…"

"I'm sure she's still there," Mackenzie began, "The shop was locked-down tight, and there were plenty of cops there to hold down the fort."

"I know that," he whispered. "But knowing that and holdin' her are two different things."

"You wanna try to get across it in daylight?" She asked. Johnny's head popped up slightly at her words, his eyes wide beneath his disheveled hair and beat-up patrol cap.

"Jeff Ingram does," he replied softly. "But Master Sergeant Ingram knows that that would be a suicide mission." His eyes swept the golf course and fell on Mackenzie's. "I won't do that to you, kid."

"You say go, and I'm on your six," she stated.

"I know that," he smiled. "What's your ammo state?"

"Ten rounds left in my last mag," she replied sheepishly.

"I'm down to my last mag, and the guys in that next pit over have a total of about thirty rounds between them," he observed. "We don't have enough to fight our way there in the daytime."

"Well, then we better get some sleep and be ready to go at sundown. I'll take the next watch, and Johnny—"

"Ringo—call me Ringo," he interrupted.

"…and Johnny," she emphasized, "You'll have last watch before dark—I'll coordinate with the guys over there."

"Make sure your NVGs are turned off… conserve your batteries…" Jeff whispered, crossing his arms around his own weapon and allowing himself to settle down into the pit for the first time. He tried to tell Mackenzie that he'd only sleep for a few hours, but his eyes were already closed, and his mind taking him back home, where his wife opened the front door, steaming cup of delicious coffee outstretched towards him…

* * *

Brian awoke with a start. The air inside a transport plane always carried a heavy tinge of must and fuel mixed with a metallic tinge, and these long-retired airframes only seemed to magify that oily scent after decades baking in the desert sun. Beside his cot, Amelia snored in a deep slumber, her raspy snorts rattling the heavy air. "She gets that from you," his wife had always teased him, and the memory brought a flash of heartbreak. The throbbing bursts of hot pain had departed, but it seemed that every muscle in his back strained in a continual flex of tightness, and he grimaced as he stood. Trevor had slid his cot right next to his sister's, and Brian noticed that the teenager held her hand in his own, even as he tossed slightly, lost in his own restless sleep. He nodded in appreciation of the sight, and adjusted their sleeping bags to the air—the air inside the old airplane warmed rapidly under the summer sun, and Brian's watch proclaimed that he had slept two hours past noon. _No wonder it's so damned warm in here,_ he thought. _They probably won't sleep too much longer…._ Muffled voices rang in hushed tones from outside the large cargo plane, and he climbed down the crew access ladder between rows of stacked water pallets.

"Mornin' sunshine," Brady called, hoisting a tin cup of coffee in his direction. Beside him, Richard, Ruben, and Rob sat upon flimsy cots, each cradling a cup of their own, rifles slung across their backs. Two additional pilots from the squadron had joined the group, and Captains Phillip Beddoe and Joseph Walsh nodded slowly in recognition as Brian descended the steps to join them in the makeshift campsite. But for the dread and regret hanging forcefully over everyone's head, the atmosphere might have resembled a good-natured campground.

 _Maybe under different circumstances,_ Brian thought.

He pulled up a stool next to his comrades and accepted the warm cup of instant-coffee. He considered the men who had just joined the group. Joseph Walsh, who bore the tactical nickname of "Sloth" for the slow and deliberate patterns of speech that marked his conversations, was of average build, with a thinning head of hair that made him look older than he actually was. He had played college football for the Air Force Academy—a fact that often caught many off-guard because of his average size. "What were you, a punter?" Brian had often teased, but Joseph's past as a quarterback carried storied tales of persistence under pressure… until a late hit twisted his knee in an unnatural direction and ended his time on the gridiron. Though reconstructed, a slight grimace often tweaked the corners of his mouth and eyes when the old injury barked in protest if he stood too quickly. _Doesn't hurt when I fly… EVER,_ he was known for exclaiming, though more than one of the pilots had noticed him limping slightly after a strenuous mission.

Any medical issues aside, Sloth remained one of the best pilots in the squadron, and carried a combat record unrivaled by many of his fellow instructors. On one mission in Afghanistan, he had laid down bullets well inside the minimum safe distances as enemy fighters attempted to overrun a friendly position. With high-explosive rounds raining down as close as fifteen meters from their own lines, the sudden shock of an equivalent of two-hundred hand-grenades exploding amongst the Taliban ranks had provided just enough cover for the American soldiers to mount a counter-offensive push and win the day. But Joseph never spoke of that mission, and student pilots learning to fly the A-10 had to pry him with whiskey and perseverance to have any hope of hearing the tale; such was his quietly humble nature.

Captain Phillip Beddoe had recently made clear his intention of separating from the Air Force. Too many deployments as a ground-liaison officer with the Army had taken a toll on this gentle giant. After his second ground deployment, the man who had come home had retained the easy smile and happy eyes, but he had begun to carry a sadness behind those facades that spoke to the demons of combat he had also brought home. His fellow pilots had dubbed him Bonnie after a drunken escapade as a Lieutenant overseas. A popular fighter-pilot tune had crudely adapted the lyrics to the song, "My Bonnie," but when his squadron would sing this ballad, Phillip would intentionally replace "Bonnie," with "Body," and he belted the word out more ferociously every time the stanza repeated. Fed up with the young Lieutenant's insolence, the older pilots decided to teach him a lesson and named him "Bonnie," so that he might forever remember his error. True to his sarcastic nature, the next time the squadron sang the song, Phillip stood atop the bar with his new tactical nametag emblazoned beneath his silver wings, and laughed to the fact that every time they sang this song, they were singing to him! He always managed to get the last laugh.

Sitting around the tiny sputtering campfire, the gathered officers seemed a million miles away from the banter of better days. Brian broke the silence, asking "So what's the plan of attack?"

"We were just going over the options," Richard muttered. "None of 'em good."

Ruben leaned forward. "We're set up good out here for now—power generators are up and we've got portable solar panels rounding out our electrical input. Food and water's no problem—we were set up to move half the base population out here, and so far we've got about seventy, maybe eighty… folks tricklin' in, but I suspect that'll increase once the sun goes down."

"Too dangerous to move in daylight," Joseph offered.

"The Boneyard perimeter is secure as of yesterday," Ruben observed. "We had just finished running the line when the base took the first hit. We should be fairly secure, for now."

"What about weapons?" Brady asked.

Ruben shook his head. "Only what you guys carried with you—the Security Forces commander wouldn't allow us to move any over here—wanted to keep them in the armory."

"Makes sense," Richard grumbled in agreement. "Don't help us none now, though."

Brian looked around solemnly, and could sense the thought lying right behind each man's gaze. "We need to get back across the base and find survivors," he stated. Heads nodded in agreement slowly, but no one lifted their eyes from the fire between them.

"We got four rifles and three pistols," Brady began. "And probably two, maybe three mags per weapon."

"That ain't a lot," Brian whispered.

"But," Rob pointed out, "We've got night vision, and can use darkness as cover. There's been gunfire here and there, but I don't think it'll be like it was last night, getting across Craycroft."

"True," Phillip returned, "…but those things might have spread out across the base now. Where we had to fight across one street, we might have to have a go constantly. And the squadron and security forces buildings are at the far end of the base, not to mention that it's a good mile, mile and a half just across the Boneyard."

"We've got golf carts," Ruben interjected. "We can use those to get to the perimeter, and then set out on foot from there."

"Great, but that still doesn't get us safely from the gate to the squadron," Brian considered.

"No, but the way we did it last night might just work again," Richard pointed out. "I don't think the threat will be whoever it was that hit the base last night—I figger they got what they wanted and pulled back."

"What if what they wanted was the base itself?" Rob asked.

Richard sat back and exhaled forcefully. "Well," he began slowly. "…in that case, we might just be fucked."

Brian leaned back and looked up through the camouflage netting stretched between the large cargo aircraft. _Does that make sense? Would they want the base? What was here that they didn't have in the safe zones?_ "Wasn't most of the fighting near the clinic last night?"

"Yeah, and all along Craycroft," Brady returned.

"Why the clinic?" Brian pondered.

"Drugs," Ruben spat. "The pharmacy." The group nodded in collective agreement.

"Do you think the mass of people charging in was just a distraction?" Joseph asked, almost in disbelief.

"It's entirely possible," Phillip considered. "Makes tactical sense, doesn't it? Open the gates… get the civilians riled up to flood the base and cause confusion… make a dash for the pharmacy and take what you want."

"That doesn't make any sense," Brady scoffed. "They could've gotten any of that shit from any Walgreens up and down every two blocks in the city."

"No," Ruben started carefully. "There's a lot more potent drugs in that pharmacy—think about the things they prescribe us when we get hurt—some of that shit gets handed out like candy on Halloween."

"You really think it's more than a pharmacy downtown?" Brady fired back.

"I do," Ruben replied.

"Alright," Brian interrupted. "Let's assume for a minute that they wanted more than the pharmacy, which I think we can agree would be a hit-and-run mission. If they wanted what we had here, it would have to be more than what they had in the safe zones, which to me would be the power supply that we kept on in base housing." The group nodded slowly. "I kept hearing stories that the safe zones had power, but that it was on a rotating basis—they had hours and hours each day with no electricity. If that's true, they might be holing up in housing to take advantage of the power grid we've got there."

"Easy enough," Richard blurted. "Stay outta base housing and close to the flight line."

"That's valid," Joseph agreed.

"What about…" Phillip started. "… those… the… others…. the…"

"The dead?" Brady blurted.

"I guess the rumors and speculation were true," Ruben whispered.

"You really think that's what it is?" Brian asked.

"Man, from what I saw, up there on the roof and down gettin' across the street… those things were dead. They were all messed up," Richard said, eyes steady and confident.

"The dead…" Rob repeated softly. "That's just not possible, is it?"

"I saw a man, his head hanging by nothing more than a couple of tendons, part of his neckbone, and the skin on one side of his neck…" Phillip uttered lowly. "His chest was flayed open by a SAW, and he kept walking." Every eye held his gaze, hanging on his words. "I seen guys doped up on every kind of amphetamine—speed, coke, you name it—those fuckers in the 'Stan would coke their boys up on God knows what and those bodies would keep going long after you knew they were dead—a live man doesn't run out from a mark-eighty-two that landed two feet from him—but the adrenaline and drugs kept them going…" His voice trailed off, his words choked with painful memories. "That was different," he whispered. "Those bodies—they thrashed… they ran… they took their last inputs and kept executing them, over and over again… like a glitch in the system, you know?" Tears ebbed at the edges of his eyes. "They kept going at full speed for a minute or so… long enough to think that you didn't get 'em… long enough to wonder just what the fuck this body is capable of…. But then, when the blood ran out or the adrenaline faded or the drugs gave out… they just collapsed. Dropped. Done. Like a goddamn bag of shit—nothing left." He looked around somberly, tears now streaming freely.

"That's not what I saw last night." He looked up through the false canopy of the netting. "Those things might be dead. But it ain't dead like we've seen. If they're dead, they're come back..." He lowered his head and wiped his tears. "And it ain't nothing any of us have seen before, brother." A heavy silence fell amongst them, and each man considered his thoughts privately. Brian threw back the last mouthful of the bitter, cold coffee, and stood slowly, his back tightening involuntarily against the sudden effort.

"We move out for the gate at sundown, and push through at the end of civil twilight."

"You alright to go bro?" Brady asked.

"I'm fine," Brian shot back. Turning to the civil engineering commander, he asked, "Ruben, did you guys set up comms?"

"We did, but we haven't gotten anything since this all went down," he stated somewhat apologetically. "We got initial words across the S-F freqs, but they went down after about midnight."

"We tried the ops freqs," Richard began. "Nothing—tried all three squadrons-no one's answering."

"Command post?" Brian asked.

"Nothing there either," Richard lamented.

"Do we have satellite communications?" Brian wondered.

"We will," Ruben returned. "We didn't get the last few antennas up, but we should have the system operational within twelve hours—we'll keep it mobile in case we need to push out of here."

"What about cell phones—they still work?"

"Yeah, but no one's answering those, either," Brady sighed.

"Maps still work, right?" Brian asked. "We can use that to plan our route." He looked around. "Seven guns, seven of us here."

"I'll be honest," Ruben said sheepishly. "I'm not a good shot. I'm not sure I'll be of any use out there."

"I'll go," Trevor's voice rang out from the access door in the aircraft above them.

"No way," Brian fired back, noticing the immediate disappointment in his son's eyes. "Son, it's not that I don't trust you or believe in your abilities…" He looked up to meet the teenager's gaze directly. "Someone needs to look after your sister." Trevor grunted, shrugged defiantly, and disappeared back into the darkness of the airplane. Brian sighed, knowing that he'd need to deal with that situation sooner or later, and an aggressive, defiant teenager trying to take on an uncertain world was a tactical problem he wished he could avoid in the present. "Colonel Alvarado, any of your troops good with a weapon?"

"I'm sure one of them will be good to join you tonight," he replied with a smile.

"That gunfire that's still pokin' up here and there," Richard pointed out, "…that's M4s—must still be some cops holdin' on."

"It's a possibility, and with the PJs out there, we should mark ourselves—do we have an infrared lights?" Brian asked, turning to Richard. "Didn't you have a survival vest on last night?"

"Ah did. Ah'll check for an IR strobe," he replied.

"I've got a couple of fireflies," Brady offered, pulling a pair of tiny, battery-operated infrared lights from his pocket.

"Good—those should help us link up with anyone else wearing NVGs," Brian observed.

"Assuming any adversaries didn't help themselves to some night vision," Phillip muttered. How many nogs do we have?

"Four sets, two banana clips, and probably ten or twelve six-packs of batteries," Richard replied.

"No helmets though," Brady added.

"Gonna be tough to use them and a rifle if they're not mounted to anything," Brian mused.

"I've got some Kevlar helmets," Ruben offered. "Body armor, some chest harnesses—not the best gear, but we raided what we could from the outdated stuff that had been turned in."

"Duct tape by chance?" Brady perked up.

"More than you'll ever need, flyboy," Ruben grinned.

"Kevlar, banana clips for the NVGs… I think we can create a couple of mounts at least," Brian mumbled, thinking out loud more than contributing to the conversation. Richard grinned in his characteristically crooked smile.

"Hell yeah we can build ourselves some mounts—leave it to 'ole Country—Ah'll hook you up!"

Brian smiled weakly at the sudden emergence of even a shred of optimism. But even a moment's reprise made the returning guilt wash over him with a gathering ferocity. He tried to blink away the thoughts and stuttered weakly, "Let's take a look at the map and figure out the best way to get through that mess."

* * *

Johnny Gonsalves gripped the edge of the sand trap, whitened knuckles pulsing as he dug his trembling fingers into the dry, crinkling grass lining the pit. He pushed his pelvis deeper into the sand, feverishly trying to will and wriggle himself deeper into the sandy earth, as if the granules might somehow provide an additional measure of protection against the rising cacophony of grunts, moans, and unearthly gargling bubbling up from the growing shadows. His red, watery eyes, swollen from a lack of sleep, widened with every rattling gasp that the light breeze carried across the thick summer air, and his heart pounded in his chest. His lungs heaved, and his chest rose and fell rapidly with the panicked gasps. He strained to identify the forms staggering in the distance, just beyond the golf course—too far away (thankfully!) to recognize features or any semblance of intentions, but the unnatural movements and other-worldly sounds demanded his every attention.

Barely able to pull his gaze momentarily from the nightmarish landscape before him, he looked slightly over his shoulder to briefly consider the two airmen curled up at the bottom of the pit. The woman jerked occasionally in a clearly uncomfortable slumber while the large black man, arms folded across his chest and his Kevlar helmet pulled low across his face, snored softly and deeply… clearly accustomed to sleeping in terrible situations. His right hand traced the outline of his thigh until he found the cold plastic grip screwed into the black steel frame of the 9mm Beretta shoved into the cargo pocket. _These people are not my friends,_ he thought. _Last night, we were enemies, but they hardly know that._ His hand came back to the gray camouflage pattern of his National Guard combat uniform, and a moment's shame drifted across his conscience. _They were also allies once… fellow combatants…._ His thoughts turned from twisting allegiances to fleeting loyalties, and he considered the road to his current predicament.

Johnny Gonsalvez had grown up in a run-down area of South Tucson, fighting three older brothers and three older sisters for any use of the shared facilities in a two-bedroom apartment. His father had died when Johnny was a toddler. A career Army man, Juan Gonsalvez Senior left for a routine training rotation and never returned. Johnny, only three years old at the time, often claimed to recall images of the day that the soldiers appeared on their doorstep in full-dress uniforms, but Juan Junior, his oldest brother, probably influenced the creation of those "memories" with his vivid re-telling of the story. Drawn to the spectral image of a man he couldn't remember, Johnny careened towards a similar military career.

But the streets had other plans for the young man with the decidedly-less Hispanic name.

Juan Junior set the family onto the path of the Fourth Avenue Dons due to his longtime friendship with the heir-apparent to the street gang, Miguel Villalobos. Juan Junior, unlike his youngest sibling, remembered clearly the day that the soldiers knocked on the ragged screen door, and he never let go of the searing memory of his beloved madre falling to her knees and screaming the name that he shared with a now departed man. He blamed Juan Senior for his mother's debilitating grief and for the anger that brewed in his heart from having to step forward to fill the empty position at the head of the household at such a young age. He never forgave his father for the loss of his childhood and adelscent years, and the companionship with Miguel cast their lots in the direction of a life of crime.

Johnny did remember the day, ten years old, dressed in his father's combat uniform, when Miguel and Juan Junior proudly sported their new spear-like tattoos: the number four and the letter A capped with a crude crown that marked their acceptance into the Dons. The older boys teased him relentlessly: "Johnny is the gringo-version of the name Juan!" They picked at him for his light skin tones—the product of his mother's Spanish lineage, and his thin, scraggly build. But always, after another merciless round of boyhood bullying, Johnny would catch Miguel staring at him intently, a slight smile cracking around the edges of his twisted lips. The older boy would often poke a long finger into the faded uniforms and remark along the lines of, "…those look good on you cabron."

As inspiration comes awkwardly and unexpectedly at times, so too did Johnny find a namesake for himself in the portrayal of the gunslinger Johnny Ringo in the film _Tombstone._ In the fair-skinned cowboy gunslinger with a mastery of the Spanish language, young Johnny found inspiration. He twirled plastic pistols on his fingers and carried a red sash, much to the chagrin of his older brother and the black bandana that marked his membership in the Fourth Avenue Dons. His somewhat reckless swinging of loaded firearms once in the Army National Guard won him the wrath of many supervisors and peers alike, and his reputation often carried labels to the effect of "dumbass," and "half-wit." Despite the disdain, Miguel always seemed to welcome him home with a warm arm around his shoulder and a rapid-fire interrogation of weapons, accessibility, and opportunities.

And then, while he was deployed to a rear-area base in Kuwait while other members of his unit fought to hold insurgent territory in Baghdad, the news arrived that his brother Juan Junior had been gunned down in a drive-by shooting. In the sweltering summer heat of the Arizona summer, as the cheap coffin—all his mother could afford—was lowered into the ground, Miguel leaned in close to his ear and whispered, "I expect you'll be stepping into your brother's shoes now, amigo."

The icy chill that shivered up from the small of his back quickly warmed with an unfamiliar pride and anxious anticipation, further heated by a wrathful desire for vengeance and a chance to finally prove himself. Though he continued to wear his Army uniform one weekend a month, he began to feel only at home once he covered himself in the black flannel shirts of the Dons.

Shadows lengthened with the setting sun, and he shivered nervously in the warm evening. The filthy uniform seemed foreign, and the presence of the security forces airmen only heightened his anxiety, though his façade of familiarity and solidarity combined to form his only chance for survival. A louder growling hiss echoed from beyond the western trees, and he felt the panic brewing in his gut again.

He reached backwards with his boot to touch the slumbering bodies at the base of the pit. "Wake up," he hissed. "It's getting dark." His words, laced with urgency, betrayed any attempt at projecting a false sense of confidence that continued to elude him. Sensing no movement, he kicked harder, catching the woman in the shoulder.

"What the fuck, asshole?" She spat

"Godamm," the large man muttered, his chin still resting on his chest. "How long you been a soldier, son?"

"Two years," Johnny replied, eyes glued to the shadows ambling in the distance.

"Two years a grunt, and you ain't never been down-range? Never heard shots fired in anger?"

"I've heard plenty of shots 'fired in anger'" Johnny spat back quietly. "And yes, I've been down-range. This is different." His voice quivered with the fear he couldn't suppress. His thoughts returned to the present as a larger group of stumbling shadows moved amongst the growing darkness. The setting sun in the west made it impossible to correlate any of the terrifying visions surrounded by that blood-curdling terror. "What are we going to do?"

Jeff Ingram crawled up to the edge of the pit and surveyed the shadowy scene before them. "We're gonna push out after dark and make our way to the squadron—ammo up and see who's alive on that side of the base."

"That side of the base…." Johnny stammered. "You mean all the way? On the other side?"

"Not but a mile," Jeff calculated.

"Through all THAT?"

"Yeah, at least they won't be shooting back like those assholes last night," Jeff mused.

Johnny bristled slightly at the description of his friends, but managed to hold his tongue. "How are we gonna see out there? It's suicide to move at night!"

"With these, dumbass," Mackenzie offered, affixing her night vision goggles again to her helmet. "I'm at fifty-percent batteries," she offered to her supervisor, who nodded and agreed that he was about the same with his own equipment.

"Stick close to our six," Jeff instructed to Johnny. "We'll only move when it's clear—use your ears—with no helmet, you might pick up sounds that we don't."

The bubbling anxiety twisted his stomach uncomfortably, and the growls in his gut demanded his attention. "You guys got any food?" he whispered.

Mackenzie snorted angrily and half-laughed a response. "No, jackass—we weren't planning on being out all night—you?"

Johnny fell silent and sank down to the bottom of the pit, secure in the moment of the fading sunlight, but knowing that the coming darkness signaled the abandonment of the tiny sandy haven he pushed himself deeper into.


	6. Chapter 6: Night Terrors

Chapter Six: Night Terrors

Joseph Walsh surveyed the darkening landscape before him and tried to rub the exhaustion from his watering eyes. After a brief planning session deep in the Boneyard, he and Phillip Beddoe had volunteered to move to the perimeter to begin observing the activity on the other side of the fence. A yard between them, they crawled slowly up the backside of a berm on the edge of the Boneyard and pulled blankets of camouflage netting across their upper body to break up any semblance of the human form. Sweeping his eyes from side to side, Joseph instinctively slid his left hand down and slowly traced the outline of the scar across his knee. Though the summer heat generally kept the recurring pain at bay, his hands typically found their way to the joint and massaged the hard tissue around the bone.

His eyes moved just as they had when he would approach the line of scrimmage… scanning for holes in the defense… lapses in coverage… the subtle cues as to the defenses' intentions. His eyes narrowed, and he surveyed this increasingly terrifying form of defense. Beside him, Phillip's head moved silently in similar, muted movements as he analyzed his half of the terrain before them. Without a word, they observed the movements of the shadowy forms before them until the sun sank into their line of sight, burning their eyes and making any analysis impossible. Joseph slid backwards slightly, feeling the strain of hours worth of immobility creaking across his joints.

"Whaddaya think?" He asked, his hand again returning to massage his knee.

Phillip remained perched at the top of the berm and simply shook his head. "Doesn't appear to be as many this evening," he observed. "But I don't know if that's a good thing or not." In the fading light, Joseph's head cocked questioningly in his direction, and he continued. "I mean, those roads were packed last night—people flooding in all directions. Not so much, now. But they had to go somewhere, right? So, if we step out into that, we could be walking blindly into a mass of who-knows-what out there tonight."

Joseph nodded slowly. "You alright brother?" He asked, noting a slight tremble in his friend's words.

"No," Phillip answered before he could catch himself.

"You don't have to go out tonight," Joseph offered. Phillip dropped his head and slid backwards down the berm slightly. Once he had descended below the lip of the earthen barricade, he rolled slowly onto his back and stared up at the sky.

"It's back," he whispered.

"The war?" Joseph asked.

"Yes," his voice barely audible above the light breeze. Phillip Beddoe had been diagnosed with acute post-traumatic-stress-disorder, and had only recently been informed that his time in the service would be closing with a medical retirement due to his condition. Episodes of tremors, disorientation, and occasional seizures made it impossible for him to continue flying, and the Air Force had curtly notified him that his separation from the active duty ranks would commence shortly.

But, that had been before the world fell apart.

Phillip and Joseph had spent many an evening passing a bottle of Jack Daniels between them as they talked about the nightmares and the silent seizures. Phillip, ever stoic about his condition, refused to call it PTSD, instead labeling it as "the war." He took to saying that "the war had come for him" on the nights where his body failed him or his dreams tortured him through painful and restless sleep, and Joseph recognized the struggle behind his friend's eyes again.

"You don't have to go with us," he repeated.

"I'll do my job," Phillip countered.

"Bro," Joseph started, but stopped as the quiet crunching of gravel beneath tires signalled the slow but steady approach of the electric cart carrying the other members of the planned excursion. The long vehicle pulled nearly silently into the revetment. Ruben Alvarado slid out from behind the steering wheel, and the others quickly followed him to crouch quietly around the two scouts.

"What did you see?" Ruben asked. Behind him, Richard, Brady, Rob, Brian, and a civil engineer troop crawled forward to catch the information.

"There's a lot less activity than last night," Joseph started. "Most of what we could see out there we assume to be dead—they're moving very slowly, but there should be more of them than what we're seeing." Noticing that every eye hung on his every word, he continued carefully. "We think that they've fanned out across the base—no idea where they all went, but close aboard here, it's pretty light. We heard some screams but no gunfire—there's definitely some of the living out there in that mess."

"They move slowly until stimulated," Phillip interjected. "They pick up on anything—noises, movement, and they move towards it."

"What about all the gunfire in the golf course last night? Did that pull them in that direction?" Brian asked.

"Doesn't look like it—I didn't think that made much sense at first," Joseph explained. "But look at the terrain—small hills, trees, buildings all over the place—that's all gonna catch the sounds and bounce it back and forth… I think it made for random stimulation and may have gotten them moving in different directions."

"What do we have for distractions?" Ruben asked.

"Ah've got a couple of survival flares," Richard offered, pulling the two thick tubes from his survival vest.

"That's not much, but it should work in an emergency," Joseph added. "We move with the NVGs and try to stay away from them—I can't imagine that those things can see in the dark."

"Their eyes are the same as ours," Brian considered. "Right, we take it slow—just like survival school—move a meter, but that's a meter that you're alive and free."

Ruben pulled a map of the base from the cargo pocket on his hip and spread it before them, a blue-highlighted line snaking through the gray depictions of buildings and roads. "Here's the route that we planned—should be similar to how you guys got over here last night."

"First stop," Brian started, "squadron building—we go straight for it and see if there are any survivors back there." He looked around slowly at each member of the group. "From there, we'll back-track north and hit the base exchange."

Noticing a quizzical look from Joseph, Richard jumped in again. "Weapons and ammo—clean out the gun counter and stock-room."

"We'll also do a quick shelf-check and see what supplies are there," Brian added. "We don't have a way to get much out of there tonight, but if it's worth going back, we'll come up with a plan for tomorrow night once we're better armed."

"Key point," Brady interrupted. "We don't have enough firepower to fight tonight—we see anyone who might be hostile, our best bet is to avoid, avoid, avoid. If those assholes are holdin' down turf, we can't take it back tonight."

"What about the commissary?" Phillip asked. "Plenty of food in there—might be worthwhile."

"I agree," Brian replied. "But, like the BX, we don't have the means to transport much tonight, and I want to limit our exposure on this first run. One other thing—there are friendlies out there—the PJs, and any defenders still roaming—stay close, keep the infrared lights on, and keep your eyes open. We'll keep the four sets of NVGs on point, tail-end, and the flanks—other three stay in the middle and move when told to move." He dragged his eyes slowly across the circle. "Any questions?"

"No, but I've got a comment," Joseph started. "Phillip needs to stay here with Ruben." Noticing his friend's immediate reaction to protest, he continued forcefully. "I think it's important to maintain mutual support here at the gate with someone who's a good shot—that also means going down one weapon for the party, but I know this guy's nose for bad situations, and I think he's the best one hold it down here with you sir," he concluded, nodding towards Ruben. Behind him, Phillip's head sank slightly, thankful that his friend covered for his momentary lapse into his own fight with the internal demons in a way that didn't suggest he might be unfit for the mission.

Ruben nodded. "I think that's a great idea," a noticeable relief coating his words. "Safety in numbers everywhere, right?"

"You good with that, Bonnie?" Brian asked, turning to Phillip.

"If that's what you want, boss—I'm here to serve," Phillip whispered.

"Then yes—hold the gate with Lieutenant Colonel Alvarado. We'll flash the red light in bursts of three until you reply when we're coming back—steady light for a problem, and the flares if it's an emergency," Brian finished. He looked around in the last light of the fading evening. "Let's rest up until it's fully dark—eat up, drink up—we push in thirty minutes!"

As the men sank into their respective corners of the earthen revetment, Phillip slid close to Joseph's position still overlooking their exit point.

"Thanks for not making me look like a punk," he whispered.

"Bro, it ain't about how anyone looks, but I wasn't gonna let you go out there tonight if you weren't one-hundred percent."

"You know I wasn't asking to get out of the mission," Phillip returned, a slight defiance mingled with a wounded pride edging his words.

"I know that. Everyone knows that," Joseph replied. "Man, it ain't about anything other than the fact that what we saw last night took you back to a place that you've got to deal with now—better to get through it over here, behind the fence, than out there where you'd have to see it again."

"You know it feels like I'm not pulling my weight—letting you down."

"Brother, if you need me to tell you that it's alright—I get it—it ain't about whether you're willing or not—I know you'd be there in a heartbeat if I told you to do it—that ain't the question." Joseph leaned back and sighed heavily. "I know what's going on in your head, and I want you to stay here tonight—get through it and if we need to go out tomorrow night, you go with us."

"If not?"

"Fuck it," Joseph shot back. "If it takes you two nights or two months brother, it doesn't matter—you're one of us and we're going to do whatever it takes to make sure you're alright. We aren't going to cast you aside like Big Blue did, you hear me?"

Phillip nodded slowly. In the growing darkness, he hoped his friend would not see the glistening tears welling in his eyes.

* * *

They pushed through the perimeter, into the blackness of an unfamiliar world. The night vision goggles dangling from his helmet bobbled slightly, and Joseph suddenly wondered if he had made the right decision in taking up one of the devices. The thought had initially seemed logical— _better to see than not to see,_ he had thought as he voluntarily sought the familiarity of the technology. However, the green hues of the goggles turned the unearthly-quiet landscape into his own personal horror movie magnified by the increasing tempo of his short, hasty breaths.

The silence that initially met them as the darkness swallowed their party quickly became excruciating. Darkened landscapes associated with the night have always seemed to represent dread, uncertainty, and and unsettling atmospheres. Still, the removal of any ambient lighting—even the disappearance of common sounds such as the persistent chirping of crickets or the gentle rustling of leaves within a light summertime breeze caused the hair to stand up on Joseph's neck, his heart racing and his breaths coming in an ever increasing crescendo of rasps and wheezes. Trying to control his visual scan, he found his eyes dancing around the field of regard within the small black tubes hanging haphazardly before his face, and the illuminated green images projected within those lenses seemed as unfamiliar and alien as anything he'd seen in both the movies and his own imagination.

Every shadow became a possible threat. Every obstacle potentially blocked his view towards an unseen intruder. His heart thumped louder in his chest, and the throbbing in his temples only added to the ever-expanding anxiety as the group slowly fumbled their way beneath a moonless sky. A few steps ahead, Brian stopped suddenly and threw up his fist in the signal for attention as they halted. The group closed ranks silently, and Joseph noticed the labored breathing of each man—every one breathing as though they had just completed a multi-mile run instead of the half-mile walk.

"This ain't right," Brian breathed.

"Anyone else scared out of their fucking gourd?" Brady asked in a low guffaw.

"Quiet shit-head," Richard whispered jokingly. "You'll wake the dead!"

"Seriously bro, knock that shit off," Joseph spat under his breath.

"Alright, alright," Brian started. "Take a second—let's move about fifty yards at a time and then do a momentary recon—listen as much as we look."

No sooner had the words fell from his lips than the low, guttural hissing rose from a few blocks away, and all heads snapped in the direction of the horribly terrifying sounds.

"Shit, there they are," Brady whispered.

"I don't see anything," Joseph stated, his eyes moving quickly back and forth before them, trying to piece together any semblance of a familiar sight within the glowing green picture projected through his goggles.

Brian crouched on one knee, and tightened his grip on the hunting rifle in his hands. He strained to identify any potential threat within the hundred yards between the group and the tennis-courts that had marked their crossing point of the main road through the base the night before, but could not discern anything moving in front of them. The distant moans of the dead rose and fell throughout the night but gave no clues as the sounds bounced across the trees, low walls, and buildings before them as to the location of the ghoulish voices. The sequenced flashing of the small infrared light perched on his shoulder only cast additional erratic and unnatural shadows before them.

Beside him, the young airmen without the benefits of the night vision devices leaned in closer to Joseph. "Sir, do I want to know what you're seeing out there?"

"Maybe not," Joseph replied, trying to inject more confidence than he felt into his words. "You don't have to call me sir, brother—we're all in this together now."

"Force of habit, sir," the young man answered back. "A little semblance of normalcy to keep the nerves calm, you know what I mean?"

"I gotcha brother," Joseph smiled quietly. "Just don't salute, got me? I'm sure those dead assholes would love to get their teeth in an officer's ass!"

Brian's voice rose slightly above the whispers and interrupted the exchange. "We're clear across Craycroft—push out! Get to the south side of the auto-hobby shop and we'll assess from there!" Before anyone could reply, he was on his feet and moving quickly across the shadowy southern edge of the tennis courts and erupting into a dead sprint across the normally busy thorough-fare for the sanctuary of the far side. Muttered complaints and groans of surprise bubbled up from the group as they struggled to reshape their haggard formation and proceed in a semblance of a mutually-supportive grouping across the open ground. Joseph's heart rate increased dramatically, but he found solace in maintaining his side of the group—eye's out… using the NVGs to scan north along the road… identify threats…

And then he saw them.

A few hundred meters north, near the base gas station. A group of about ten forms staggering awkwardly in the middle of the street. His knees threatened to freeze. His skin crawled with the realization of what he was looking at. The shadowy forms, illuminated in the green hues of his night vision, shuffled haphazardly and slowly. The muted growl of the wet hacking and hissing that had seemed to come from nowhere suddenly had an identifiable source. The scar on his left knee suddenly throbbed with a white-hot sliver of slicing pain, and he fought with every fabric of his conscious thought to keep himself from freezing at the sight of the creatures staggering in his sight.

Somehow, his legs kept moving.

He kept running alongside his comrades until his feet tangled in the hard concrete of the curb on the far side of the street, and he felt the world begin to turn sideways within the two small orbs of green light before his eyes. A strong force on his arm and underneath his armpit ceased the tumble, and he realized that Richard had caught him as he had tripped.

"Easy, brother," the younger officer panted. "You fall, we stall!"

Joseph turned his eyes quickly back towards the dead, trying to decide whether they'd been spotted. The green-tinted picture failed to offer further clues that the ghouls had moved towards them, and a moment's clarity suddenly pierced his thoughts.

 _They can't see us!_

The burden of increased acuity now revealed itself to be a true advantage. As the group settled in behind the deserted auto skills center, Joseph allowed his mind to return to the vestiges of training that had been embedded upon him over many years of training at night—lessons and techniques that he himself had passed on to countless wingmen learning to fly under the aid of night vision—and laughed in an uncomfortable silence at the rediscovery of lessons passed on so many times before. He slowly moved the goggles up and away from his line of sight, and noticed how the blackness quickly replaced the glowing green of the assisted vision. The voices of numerous instructor pilots rang heavy in his ears: _put your goggles up… look around… see what the world looks like without those aids… lights out there help you to see color, but notice how you can't see a damned thing outside of your cockpit without the NVGs… now put them back on… pick up all of the details… take them off again… notice how that transition works… how quickly everything goes from detailed green to an empty black…._

 _They can't see us._

Richard's voice rang out quietly from behind him. "Ah've got about ten of those things north of us on Craycroft," he whispered. "If'n y'all are gonna catch a breath, Ah'll keep an eye on those sumbitches!"

"How many do you see?" Brian asked quietly.

"Dunno, ten maybe," Richard replied.

"Adults? Any children?' Brian demanded tersely.

"Shee-it, boss—can't see that from here. You wantin' me to go over and card them?" Richard returned sarcastically.

"Just-," Brian stammered, "…just keep an eye out for kids—just let me know if you see anything like that."

Between his own rapid breaths, Joseph could hear the same pulsing gasps from his comrades, and he realized that the electric tension now radiating amongst them was a growing and suddenly acute sense of fear.

 _Fear_. An emotion that a fighter jock would never admit to publicly, but one nonetheless which had gripped the heart of every pilot that had ever climbed into a cockpit at some point in their endeavors. They used other words to describe the near-instantaneous increases in heart rates and shallow, raspy breaths… the tingling across the neck and the bowl of ice that fell into the pits of their guts in moments that they carried for the rest of their days. They called it _anticipation,_ or _anxiety,_ and some may have even attempted to label it as _nervousness_ , but those words came either in after-the-fact explanations, or philosophical academic sessions describing what combat would be like for the first time to an uninitiated wingman. _You know that nervousness you get right before an evaluation? It'll be like that—you might get a little anxious, but before you know it, your training kicks in and your hands react automatically._

Calming words allowed the young pilot's mind to remain at ease in the moments leading up to the _first time._

 _But the fear came for them all in some way._ It came for them in ways that they rarely mentioned. It returned in subtle manifestations of inescapable memories—an unnoticed shaking of the hand… the trailing off of a cracked voice… a stare focused indefinitely to a distant vision only the bearer can see…

That first time… he'd never forget it.

Over the outskirts of Baghdad in 2003, Joseph had flown as the wingman to the squadron's chief instructor pilot—an officer who had been grooming him to attend the same advanced tactical school in the future. Joseph showed promise as a young, enthusiastic wingman, and the top pilot in the unit had taken him under his wing, literally and figuratively. Enroute to their target area, the anti-aircraft fire had left him occasionally transfixed—unblinking eyes glued to the slow-ascending, glowing orbs, exploding shells, and streaking missiles through his night vision goggles as the dependable fighter carried him towards the beckoning, angry winks of light. A series of coordinates had been passed to them early in the flight, and both men poured over maps in the small cockpit, tiny lights affixed to their fingers and oxygen masks to see beneath the night vision devices. As he traced the paper with a small black grease pencil, the target's location sent the first shiver of ice from his heart to his gut.

Baghdad.

 _Right in the heart of all that anti-aircraft fire._

Before the fear could spread, the quick commands of his flight-lead rang out in his helmet, and just as his instructors had told him, his training took over. His hands moved automatically around the cockpit, and in the moment when his duty demanded his attention, the fear was forgotten.

It returned with his turn to attack their target. The flight lead briefed the responsibilities and the game plan, and then it was up to him to execute the tactics. With the silence on the radios, and nothing but the gentle hum of the motors behind him mixed with the steady side-tone always present in the background of his headphones, the icy chill stabbed again from his gut. With time to think about what he was about to do, the fear threatened until he could throw the full weight of his conscious concentration into flying the aircraft precisely as it needed to be maneuvered to commence his attack. As his thumb keyed the transmit switch on his throttle announcing his assault, the nerves disappeared and the training took over. He had talked about it with his flight lead much later that night as they sipped a forbidden but smuggled shot of whiskey in the darkness near their billeting trailers. The lesson remained simple, and he remembered it as guns aimed at the sky were replaced by ambling corpses.

 _When there's a job to do, there's no time to be afraid._

A simple lesson, and he pulled the NVGs back before his eyes.

 _Find a job to do._

He aggressively scanned the northern flank of their group and activated the laser-pointer attached in a ramshackle fashion with duct tape along the side of his rifle. Another lesson rolled forward in the form of a voice in his ears… a quotation from a famous fighter pilot… words read many times from the page of a well-worn novel… another man's words, another's voice… now echoing softly in his mind. _Anybody who doesn't have fear is an idiot. It's just that you must make the fear work for you. Hell, when somebody shot at me, it made me madder than hell, and all I wanted to was shoot back._

 _Find a job. Find a target. Scan your sector. Protect the flanks. Protect the group._ He realized suddenly that his voice hadn't been just in his head as a mental reminder to himself, but that the words had spilled from his lips. A flash of embarrassment quickly faded as Brady picked up the chant to the rear of the formation, and Joseph noticed that his own laser pointer began moving in a concerted, rhythmic motion in parallel with his own. Brian's whispered voice rang out from the head of the unit.

"Move out."

They proceeded slowly, and despite their individual dealings with the unfamiliar environment, they settled into a slightly clumsy but uniform movement, stopping every fifty to a hundred yards to analyze their surroundings. The occasional moans and unearthly murmurs of the dead echoed around them, and they altered their movements to keep away from the staggering groups stumbling around the base's buildings, walls, and shrubbery. The cover of darkness seemed to play into their hands as an advantage, and Joseph realized that they had approached to within a half-block of the squadron building.

"Hold here," Brian commanded. "Country, come with me—we're going to the end of the block to where we can get a clear view to the squadron parking lot and make sure nothing is coming down the street from our left flank that will trap us once we make a run for the objective."

"Roger that, boss," Richard drawled quietly.

"Sloth, once we're ready to move direct to the squadron, we'll give you three flashes of the IR pointer—reform on us, and as soon as you're there, we move." Brian looked around the group. "Any questions?"

With no voices speaking up, the two men departed, running hunched over to the edge of the small wall that blocked their view to the west. Joseph watched as Country's laser pointer marked his own scanning of the men's flank as he scanned the road intersecting their line of advancement from forty-five degrees to the rear.

"What about the other squadrons?" Brady's voice fell in hushed tones from his left.

"Looks like Country's scanning in their direction now. Maybe we can check them on the way back to the Boneyard," Joseph offered.

"That would keep us from hitting the BX—unless we're gonna go that far out of the way and snake our way through all this again," Brady returned, an aura of doubt creeping into his words. Joseph nodded silently. A blood-curdling scream pierced the air from far behind them, and every man uttered hushed profanities to himself.

"Dammit, I don't need to hear that shit right now," Joseph complained.

"We can't do anything about it from here," the engineer observed. A sharp report of two quick gunshots echoed from far to their right flank.

"M-fours," Rob whispered.

"Might be defenders," Brady stated absently.

"Might be," Joseph agreed. "Might be someone who picked up their weapons." He checked to ensure that the little firefly infrared light was still clicking away, sending out the flashes of light that only the NVGs could pick up.

In front of them, an infrared laser pointer flashed three times. The group ran forward slowly, their boots occasionally kicking small pebbles across the asphalt—sounds that were normally indiscernible but now seemed to report as loudly as the gunshots behind them. They fell back into a single formation at the corner, and Brian's voice met them immediately.

"No sign of light or movement in tent-city—parking lot looks clear."

"For now," Richard drawled.

"Here's the plan," Brian whispered. "Straight to the first parking lot entrance, then back left to get to the lot behind the squadron—more egress points than going straight into the tents. If anyone stuck around the squadron, chances are they're in the vault, and we can get their attention by tapping on the outside wall from the parking lot—we don't have to go into the squadron. Flanks—keep an eye on the windows—any light, any movement, call a halt and we'll investigate." Without a word, all heads nodded, and the group broke into the same shuffled, hunched-over jog with their weapons at the ready. Though he tried to only monitor his side of the formation, Joseph's heart began to sink as details of the squadron building came into view as they moved closer.

Many of the tents lay half-collapsed in the northern parking lot. Trash and clothing—remnants of anything left behind lay strewn haphazardly across the asphalt. The glass door on the east end of the squadron was shattered, the small shards of glass splayed across the concrete and tiny granite decorative rock sparkling from the view of the night vision goggles. Dark patches and swaths lay flung across the path and walls. Joseph thought at first that he was picking up shadows, and his heart sank further as we realized that those "shadows" didn't move with his adjusting perspective.

Bloodstains.

The back parking lot told a similar story, and the double glass doors that led to the squadron's operations desk had been pulled from their frames. Broken glass covered the walkways. As Brian sprinted for the wall that framed the squadron's classified facility, Richard's laser pointer began tracing the outline of the destroyed door, and he crouched into a low ready position. Even from a few feet back, Joseph could clearly make out his horrified observation, as the young pilot from South Georgia muttered, "Jee-sus…". Brian began rapping slowly and lightly on the wall, tapping out the Morse code for S-O-S. Joseph's heart rose to his throat, and he began pleading for anyone to answer, hoping that this time his words might remain internal to his own dialogue.

Without the use of the NVGs, Joseph couldn't make out the details of Brian's face, but the increasing force behind his knuckles rapping on the walls broadcast the growing frustration and despair. Stopping to rub his hand, he motioned for the young engineer to come forward—one of the few not brandishing a helmet topped with night vision devices. "Put your ear against the wall—see if you can hear anything in there after I knock a few more times." The young airman nodded and leaned in close to the side of the building. Brian drew a deep breath, and banged his knuckles as hard as he dared in the silent night—the soft cracks still seeming to echo across the parking lot and aircraft hangars near them. The young man's ear pressed against the wall, and even in the darkness, Joseph saw his eyes widen in indescribable horror.

A slow grating began scratching at the other side of the wall, a scraping that each of the men could clearly make out. The younger man drew back quickly and stared at the wall, transfixed.

"The—they…" he stammered. "I can hear… oh my god, what is that?" His voice cracked and fell off, and Brian ripped off his helmet and pressed his ear against the wall. After a moment, his chin fell to his chest, and he slowly reached for the Kevlar helmet.

"They're dead," he whispered. "All of them."

"No," Joseph started.

"It's the same thing we're hearing out here—we're not going in there," Brian cut him off.

"We need to account for everyone we can," Joseph protested.

"I agree," Brian nodded, "But we don't know what we're up against in there—listen for yourself if you want to, but there's a lot of them in there, and they're clearly all dead."

Joseph stood to argue further, emotions beginning to cloud his immediate focus. These were their friends—family, comrades in arms—brothers and sisters with whom they had shared exultations and heartbreaking defeats, and now they couldn't even get to them to confirm what had apparently happened. He slammed his fist into the wall and lowered his head.

No one saw the dead filing into the parking lot behind them.

Brady stood to place a hand on his friend's shoulder, and Richard had bowed to one knee in an moment's prayer for the lost. Joseph hit the wall again, and the thunk reverberated across the parking lot.

Sparked by the sudden sound, the hissing growls of the dead rose immediately, and the small wall of walking corpses began shuffling up from the far corner of the lot. Brian heard the sudden gurgle and whipped his goggles in the direction of the horrifying din.

"Oh shit," he muttered.

More than a hundred bodies ambled towards them from the small space between the large engine fabrication warehouse to their east and the flight line fence. More of the shuffling forms paralleled the movement on the other side of the fence near the massive aircraft hangars. A smaller group of about twenty appeared in the parking lot's mouth where they had come from, effectively corralling the small group between the dead and the squadron building.

Brian held out his arms and lowered his voice as much as possible. "Trust the darkness—they came for the sound, but they can't see us." The leading elements of the dead walked straight into some of the few cars still littering the lot, and some seemed to move in concert with the ghouls on the other side of the fence. "We've got one chance," Brian whispered. "Get ahead of them and go around the south side of the building—between the flight line fence and the squadron—it's narrow, but we'll be able to move freely once we're on the far side." He looked around quickly. "Column of twos—pair up, move quickly, and don't shoot if you don't have to—that'll just pull them all right after us en masse."

"Stay on the concrete," Richard observed. "The rocks will make too much damned noise and the gig'll be up."

"Gotta move now," Brady hissed. The men hunched over to break any visible line of sight to the corpses, and ran for the narrow alley. Turning the corner to place the mass of dead behind them, he slid to a stop and lost all consideration for silence.

"Oh SHIT!" He yelled.

The gate to the flight line in the narrow alleyway hung open, and the dead filled the space in front of them.

Joseph's throat went dry. His muscles froze, and he held his breath involuntarily. A slight twitch began in his left hand, and the scar above his knee began throbbing.

The fear had returned.

* * *

"Sergeant Ingram, I've got an IR strobe south of our position," Mackenzie whispered. In the darkness, she felt rather than saw the large man turn near her to scan in the direction she had pointed out.

"I got nothing," he replied. "You sure?"

"Positive," she returned. "It just went behind the buildings by the flight line—looked like there might have been a group of four, maybe five with it."

"Weapons?"

"Couldn't tell from this range," she replied.

"Anything from the strobes up by the border patrol hangar?"

"Nothing in the last ten minutes."

Jeff nodded. Mackenzie had a good eye for her surroundings, and she crouched protectively on the steps to their unit building. "How are you on ammo?"

"Last mag, ten rounds," she whispered.

"Alright, Imma finish up in here—Johnny's ten feet behind you, sing out if you see those lights again," he commanded, then turned to walk back into the darkened security forces building.

"Did you find her?" Mackenzie's voice trailed quietly behind him. Jeff stopped, failed to find the words to answer the question, and forced himself to stride back into the building. Johnny huddled in the corner, shaking hands cradling his pistol, pointed at the ceiling, before his face.

"What's happening out there?" He stuttered.

"Nothing, stay here," Jeff ordered. "I'm going to clear out the admin room, and then we can check the armory." Back in the unlit corridors, he slung his rifle, pulled out his nine-millimeter pistol, and activated his LED flashlight, blinking quickly against the sudden onslaught of brilliant illumination. He strode quietly back to the administrative waiting room and directed the light towards the clerk's window. Thick, bullet-proof glass lined the small alcove where the duty sergeant would normally process visitors and customers. The unit's orderly room and administrative area opened just beyond the small desk framed by that glass window.

Bloody handprints marred the edges of the glass.

Even through the filthy glass, he could see the coffee pot on the far side of the admin room—the carafe still about a quarter full. Jeff knew that this is where his wife would have remained throughout the chaos of the previous night, believing herself to be secure with his fellow defenders behind that protective glass, continuing to make sure that the coffee stayed hot, fresh, and available for the valiant airmen as they took a moment to regroup, reload, and prepare for their re-attacks. He saw the stack of styrofoam cups arranged neatly beside the machine, and he could almost see her pouring cup after cup, placing them in exhausted hands that poured the steaming liquid down parched throats seeking an instant's lift before charging back through the back door and into the fight.

He wondered how it had gotten in there.

Maybe one of the defenders had been bitten. Or shot, and brought in for medical care. A couple of cots had been pushed against the far wall, and some of the desks looked like they had been cleared hastily of the cups, pens, and papers that marked normal work efforts. He searched for the clues as to the previous night's fight and struggle against the quivering sobs growing in the pits of his chest.

It didn't take long for the raspy growls to rise from the darkness on the other side of the flashlight's narrow beam. When she came to the window, Jeff moved the light away from her face—he didn't want to see her like this. He refused to let the image of her eyes, once so filled with life and love, to be replaced by the sight of empty, grey, lifeless slates. He would not remember her like this, and he moved the beam to search for any other resurrected forms in the room. A second, then third shape rose shakily from the shadows behind the desks, and shuffled towards the window. The first he recognized immediately—a young man from rural Montana who had arrived in the unit only a couple of weeks before the downfall. He complained routinely about the desert heat and lamented the lack of fly-fishable streams. He peppered his superiors with constant requests to deploy—Jeff thought he had some innate fear that he'd somehow manage to miss the war that had gone on for more than a decade already, and he looked for combat opportunities with the naivety of the uninitiated.

And now he growled and stumbled ridiculously towards the bright beam of light, his eyes empty and devoid of any passions. His neck had been ripped wide open, and his battle uniform was stained black in the darkness. Jeff looked on with sadness as he noticed that the boy's right arm was missing, tatters of his uniform covering the wretched stump of his shoulder flailing in the artificial light. His left hand, mangled and bloody, began scratching at the glass, reaching for the flashlight.

Behind the two stood his commander, or former commander, Major Courtney Watkins. True to his nature, the man had stayed behind, walled up behind the protection of his personal command post, probably thinking that to be the safest location in the fight. Jeff sneered as he imagined the justifications he'd heard a hundred times— _a commander must be in a position to command, and that means you won't find me on the front lines—I'm no use to anyone if I get zapped!_ Jeff shook his head and lamented that the tactical command locations always seemed to be the safest. But somehow, even in his constant establishment of personal security, the new order managed to find its way in, and in such a fight, took his wife as well.

Jeff placed the flashlight on the counter and moved back into the shadows, careful to avert his eyes from the woman on the right side of the glass. They clawed at the light madly, hissing and clacking their jaws at the open air, now apparently oblivious to the man who had slid back into the darkness. Jeff hit the magazine release on his pistol and studied the back of the black sleeve; at least ten rounds remained.

He only needed three.

He slammed the magazine back into the weapon and felt the loaded chamber lever poking up. He activated the laser pointer and reached for the door to the back side of the admin room. _Maybe it's locked,_ he wished. _Maybe it's locked and we can just skip this part._

The handle turned silently in his hand.

 _Dammit._

He pushed the door open silently, and the metallic stench of blood filled his nostrils as he glided into the room, the three shadows silhouetted by the flashlight still clawing at the glass on the opposite side of the room. He grasped the pistol with both trembling hands and walked the laser sight to the back of the woman's head. He exhaled softly and fought to control the red dot dancing with his quivers. The beam settled within the mass of disheveled, black hair, and he sucked in one last breath, hoping to draw with it enough courage to pull the trigger.

"I love you, Sarah" He whispered.

The weapon barked.

A single tear fell from his eye.

The shape collapsed.

The other two ghouls immediately turned to the sound, their rasps rising to a fevered pitch. Jeff screamed in his soul's agony, and pulled the trigger again. The young airman buckled and dropped. The red laser moved quickly to the commander's forehead.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

The pistol obeyed again, and the corpse's head snapped backwards, carrying the awkward frame with it before falling backwards across shaky legs that snapped in opposite directions.

"CLEAR!" He bellowed, trying to force far more confidence into his shaky voice than he felt in his quivering gut.

Jeff turned and leaned against the door frame.

He stepped over the fallen body of the commander, and reached for the neck of the younger man, pulling the thin chain holding his dog tags up. He rotated the small knobs until he found the attachment point, and gently disconnected the chain. He slid the small tin tabs into his pocket, and slid slowly over to the body of his wife. She lay face down, _thankfully…_ another memory he wouldn't have to make; he'd never be able to let go of such a sight.

The necklace was still there. He turned the chain until the misshapen pendant rested between his dirty fingertips. The two colors swirled together as he examined the metal disc in the reflected light from his flashlight on the other side of the bloody glass. Two bullets, pounded and formed into a single charm hanging from a simple silver chain—all he could afford at the time. The first, a round from an AK-47, had fallen out of the sky on an unremarkable day in Baghdad, embedding itself in the wood handrail of Sarah's trailer less than a foot from where she stood. The second, a sniper's high-caliber round that had punched a hole deep into the thick armor of a humvee's turret just two inches below Jeff's eyes in Afghanistan. In the dim light, he turned the disc until the words became visible.

 _Love is immortal._

He leaned back against the wall and stroked a swath of her curly dark hair softly, mesmerized by the light bouncing across the trinket; two instruments of death fused into a symbol of what they had believed to be an undying love.

His left hand covered his eyes, and he began sobbing uncontrollably.

* * *

"FIGHT FORWARD!" Brian yelled, and Joseph sprung to his feet at the urgency of his command, any last vestiges of anxiety (fear!) vanishing beneath the weight of the order. "Into the alley—push the smaller gaggle back!" He barked. "Country, Dude, cover our six—don't let that group get close!" Joseph slid into position beside Brian at the head of the formation. "Pistols up front—rifles to the rear, MOVE FORWARD!" The gurgled hissing coming from both directions began to rise as the dead reacted to the sudden stimulation of shouted commands. The fence shook as the corpses rattled the links on their side; the smaller group before them began shuffling in their direction, their movements almost seeming to become more uniform, agitated, and with a growing ferocity.

"Shit, the gate's open!" Joseph yelled. The flight line access gate swung towards them—if they didn't close the distance and close it quickly, they'd have to deal with the dead on three sides instead of just two.

"Move forward! Head shots only!" Brian barked. His nine-millimeter pistol roared, and a black film sprayed across the green hues of their night vision goggles. The two men at the front of the formation sprinted forward as the first line of dead collapsed before them, and Brian reached for the gate with his left hand, his right already targeting the next shape staggering towards them. He pushed the chain-link gate forward, but another dark shadow ambled out of the darkness to reach through the closing gap and prevent the gate from latching. At this range, Brian could see that the arm was clad in the distinctive camouflage pattern of the airman's battle uniform, and his eyes instinctively rose to the face of the ghoul opposite his own. Trina MacArthy, a tall, single mother who had always greeted the pilots returning from their training sorties with a smile or a gentle chiding for the common errors on their paperwork, growled at him now with lifeless, grey eyes. Her jaw slammed shut repeatedly as if she were taking bites from the air as her cheeks pressed into metal links of the fence. Her teeth snapped rapidly, inches from Brian's face, and he pushed harder against the gate, feeling the grinding of the metal against the bones in her forearms more than he heard it. A flash of black metal glinted before his eyes, and then a deafening roar replaced the wet gnashing and hissing with a dull ringing that robbed the world of any other sound.

Brian stepped back and reached for his ears with his free hand automatically. His vision returned slowly, and he began to make out Joseph's right arm stretched before him, a small tendril of smoke still curling from the barrel of his Beretta while his left had slammed the gate closed. Trina lay sprawled backwards on the other side of the secured fence, her legs twisted unnaturally beneath her. A growing black pool spread from behind her head, and her blank eyes stared unmoving at the night sky.

Joseph saw Brian pause and stare at the fallen women and barked his name to get the man back in action. Brian didn't respond, and Joseph realized that the proximity of the gunshot had probably rendered him deafened for the moment. He pulled the young engineer forward, and slapped Brian's cheek to get his attention. He reached for the gun, and Brian nodded, seeming to understand that he was being replaced on the front, his jaw stretching in the vain attempt to restore some semblance of hearing.

Behind them, Richard and Brady shuffled backwards, feeling for the group's forward progress with their backsides. As the first line of dead approached the mouth of the alley, Richard bellowed, "NOW!" The two men dropped the first four corpses quickly, and the next line of creatures fell over the fallen bodies. "Hit 'em when they fall—we'll barricade the alley with the dead!" Richard yelled.

"Thermopylae baby! Build the wall!" Brady shouted, a slight grin ticking at the corner of his mouth.

"Yer no Leonidas," Richard growled, his rifle erupting with a final report. "I'm out, reloading!" He dropped to one knee, and Rob stepped forward to fill his gap in the formation.

"Last mag!" Brady shouted beside him. "How we doin' up front?"

Joseph looked down at his pistol, the slide locked backwards after the last round had been fired. Beside him, the young man's Beretta discharged for the last time as well. Joseph's eyes returned forward, and saw at least five or six corpses rounding the corner ahead of them and filling the opposite mouth of the alley. All around them, the guns had gone silent.

"Need a decision," Richard howled. "Our little wall back here ain't holdin' 'em back!"

"Rifles front," Brian wailed—"Push 'em back and get to open ground on the far side of the building—we'll have maneuver room there!"

"Ah got this, come on Dude," Brady growled, gripping his rifle like a baseball bat. The two men pushed forward quickly, swinging the weapons like clubs at the shadows reaching and snapping for them. Brady's rifle connected with the head of a stocky corpse and sent it reeling into the fence where it collapsed and twitched, but it's flaying hands kept reaching for the ankles of the men before them.

"They ain't stayin' down, push on these last few and break through—keep your arms out-stretched and keep the biters back!"

Now at the rear of the formation, Joseph noticed that their progress was far too slow. The mass of bodies stumbling over their fallen predecessors drew to within twenty feet and seemed to reform their agility once past the obstacle. He turned and leaned into Brady's back and began pushing, trying to gain enough leverage to drive the last few corpses ahead of them back into the opening. His feet slid on the wet concrete, and he collapsed onto his bad knee, a white-hot lightening bolt of pain shooting up through his entire body. He gritted his teeth against the sudden shot, and felt the first hand on his ankle.

Brian felt the corpses begin to move backwards, but his leverage just didn't afford enough power. Keeping their mouths and arms at bay while trying to push against the chests only seemed to topple the first few while the advancing dead began reaching for them. He looked down for a better foothold to push anew, when two cold hands closed around his boot and began scratching at the bottoms of his flight suit. He could feel the nails searching for a way through the material, and saw Joseph collapse next to him, his feet losing their grip on the concrete stained with black bile and blood.

 _This is it,_ he thought.

The fear didn't return this time. Only a momentary but profound sadness. Trevor and Amelia's faces flashed across his eyes, and he saw his wife's gentle smile. He gripped the stock of the rifle tightly and felt a sudden resolve. _If this is it, take just one more with you._ He brought the stock up quickly through the snapping jaw of the corpse ahead of him and watched the neck snap backwards with a muted but sickening crunch as the ringing in his ears faded into a roaring determination fueled by desperation. Another corpse lunged for his neck, and he slammed the butt of the rifle into the thing's lifeless eyes, feeling the cheekbones shatter.

 _One more. Just take one more with you._

He could see through the last line of the advancing dead, but the cries and sudden shouts from behind them told him that the massive group had begun to overtake them from the rear. Brian turned to continue fighting, and his heart finally sank with the sight of what seemed to be hundreds of dark, snarling forms filling the alley behind them.

 _This is it._

He didn't flinch when he felt the hand on his shoulder. He wondered if he could take just one more, and tightened his grip on the rifle and tensed his arms for one last swing. He dug in with his right foot and the rifle began its last arc.

"Whoa now, go easy there brother!" A new voice hissed from Brian's side, and he felt the grip on his shoulder tighten and pull him in the direction they had been fighting. Five black forms flooded his peripheral vision—his night vision goggles hung to the side, the duct-tape holding them to the helmet torn and frayed. The forms raised assault rifles and began popping disciplined shots into the advancing line of corpses. Additional shapes flooded between them and began pulling the fallen men into the opening. "Come on, get your people—get moving!" the voice barked from the darkness between gunshots.

Brian reached down and threw his arms around Joseph's waist and pulled him to his feet. The pain from his knee throbbed constantly, but he hobbled forward. As they rounded the building, Joseph looked back and saw the line of newcomers shuffling backwards towards them, their laser sights moving from one head to another in the advancing crowd. Another strong hand wrapped around him from the opposite side, and he felt himself propelled forward quickly.

"You guys again," the gravelly voice grunted from his side.

"Yeah," Brian replied sheepishly.

"We're going to have to stop meeting like this," the voice cracked. "Now you owe me two." They shuffled forward to the squadron's outdoor patio, and the two men lowered Joseph slowly onto the bench of the aluminum table. Brian patted Joseph's shoulder reassuringly, then reached for the new man's hand, grasping it tightly and embracing him.

"Sherman, right?" He asked.

"That's right," the newcomer replied. "What the fuck are you guys doing out here?"

"Had to check on our squadron," Brian whispered, still trying to catch his breath. "Had to know—"

"I get it," Sherman replied. "Still ain't smart." Behind them, the gunshots began falling off, and the three additional pararescuemen sprinted around the corner.

"We can't hold 'em, boss," one of them stammered. "We gotta move."

"Roger that," Sherman replied cooly. "Let's get back to the border-patrol hangar. They should be ready to move by now."

"Border patrol?" Brian asked.

"Yeah, met up with a bunch of them and local cops—they'd holed up in their hangar. Got a few security forces defenders with us too." He turned to Joseph. "Can you walk?"

"With help—can't run, brother."

"Bet you could fly with that knee," Brian joked.

"You betcher ass!" Joseph growled.

"Anybody bitten? Anybody hurt?" One of the PJs called out.

"I don't think so," Richard replied. "Anyone?" All around them, heads shook. Behind them, the leading edge of the dead mass turned the corner and began staggering towards them.

"Outta time, let's go!" Sherman shouted. Joseph threw his arm around Brian's shoulders, and drew himself up with a loud grunt.

"There's a gate about a hundred meters on the side of the fabrication shop on the other side of your parking lot—area was clear when we came through—we'll get through that and then along the flight line to the hangar." He reached for the small handheld radio on his hip and adjusted the small boom microphone in front of his lips. "Falcon One, this is Blackbird Six, say convoy status." Brian couldn't hear the return call as it came through the single headphone on the far side of Sherman's face, but he saw the man nod perceptively. "Copy that—when you're ready, roll south along the west side of the hangars—we'll meet you where we can." He looked over at Brian. "They're still loading up—we're gonna have to hoof it," he explained apologetically. He stopped and began pulling cylinders from his chest harness. "We unloaded most of the security forces' armory with the help of some defenders we ran into—they're not quite done loading up yet. Meanwhile," he pulled the plastic cap from the cylinder and inspected the small triggering lever. "Let's get a distraction for our tails." He popped the lever and a brilliant red plume of flame shot from the edge of the flare. He stood and hurled the burning device into the street away from the flight line. Intense light cast incredible shadows across the landscape as the flame shrieked out of the tube with a flickering shout. Sherman pulled the men away from the fire. "Move into the shadows—those things will go for the light—it's all they can see out here—stay quiet!" He commanded.

For the first time, Joseph saw the ghouls distinctly. Their heads lopped lazily from side to side and no two of them moved exactly the same. Some ambled, some shuffled…. Some dragged broken limbs or stumbled on ankles turned in disgustingly unnatural directions. The now-familiar calls of the dead rose in crescendo as they moved for the visual stimulation. Their ashy gray faces and eyes lacked any expressive features, and the blank, white eyes almost glowed in the reflected red light of the flare. He noticed the red beams flicking from head to head as the PJs crouched beside him, their weapons trained towards any potential threat should the mass shift course again.

Brian leaned in close to Sherman beside him. "The little girl," he whispered. "Did you find the little girl?"

* * *

Satisfied that the automatic weapon was secured properly in her turret, Mackenzie leaned back for the moment and allowed her eyes to drift towards the stars above. She sighed and called down into the humvee. "Sergeant Ingram, can I bum a smoke?"

"I don't smoke, and neither do you, kid," he returned half-heartedly.

"Pretty sure I could use one after the last couple of nights," she replied, whistling softly in the breeze. "I'm secure up top," she offered, looking down between her boots into the back seat of the vehicle. Jeff Ingram sat quietly, his head hung towards his lap. A small medallion rolled between his fingers. "Do you know what we're waiting on?"

"BP and sheriffs are loading the last of their gear into their trucks," he replied, the normal bluster and fire noticeably absent from his words. In her peripheral vision, movement at the south end of the hangars to her left caught her eye, and Mackenzie sprang forward on her weapon, instantly activating the laser sight and swinging the barrel towards the movement. "Possible contacts, eleven o'clock," she spat. She leaned in on her iron sights and pulled the night vision tube down over her left eye. The group moved deliberately, though some seemed to be injured and supported by other members. Armored figures lined the edges of the groups, their stubby assault rifles pointed outward towards any potential threats. "Looks like the guys we're waitin' on," she whispered. She noticed the flicker of the small infrared lights on their backs and helmets. _So that's who I saw earlier tonight,_ she thought. The radio below her feet crackled to life.

"Falcon, Blackbird Six approaching from the south, plus six pax, one partially ambulatory, no critical injuries."

"Blackbird Six, Falcon copies—still waitin' on final loads and we'll push out. Sorry you had to walk all the way back," came the terse reply.

"Good for the heart, right?" the reply fired back.

The group slowly made their way to the convoy of ten vehicles lined up alongside the border patrol hangar. Mackenzie looked down from her turret as the haggard group shuffled forward, gently helping one man who appeared to be favoring his left knee and limping noticeably. A tall man in pararescue combat gear began directing the members to individual vehicles, and he approached her humvee with two of them in tow, his words becoming audible as they drew closer.

"Got two seats in here with our defenders—you got the most armor and firepower of the convoy in this one—we've got our quads, and four-wheelers, but no armor."

"We're driving back through all that?" The one in the haggard flight suit asked.

"Not through the base, no," the tall PJ answered. "Shit no—we're going around—all the way south on the far side of the runway—BP cleared it earlier tonight—the ones that got into the flightline have mostly stayed to the north side. Once we get around the runway we'll come up through the far side and into the Boneyard—it'll take longer, but it's safer with as many trucks as we're pushin' through this."

"It'll be light in a couple of hours—we need to be in the yard before then."

The tall man nodded. "I think we're about ready to roll—why don't you guys mount up and relax—I'll finish herdin' these cats." He turned to a border patrol agent in the truck behind the humvee and called out quietly, "Mike, put this guy in your truck where he can stretch out. Jerry, get a cold pack from the med kit and take a look at that knee." The pilot in the flight suit looked up at the turret and caught Mackenzie's eyes, nodding once in her direction as he reached for the door handle. In the driver's seat, Johnny rapped his fingers nervously along the steering wheel as the two newcomers slid into the vehicle. In the backseat, a broad-shouldered pilot with exhausted eyes slid in and carefully placed his rifle between himself and Jeff, leaning over with the vestiges of a smile and offered his hand.

"Rich Kemp, glad to meet you." Jeff finally looked up and allowed the edges of his mouth to crack in a weak grin.

"Jeff Ingram," he whispered dryly, his eyes never departing from the metal charm.

"Mackenzie Heffernen," she added, leaning down between her knees to stare into the body of the vehicle. "Either of you guys got a smoke?"

"Don't listen to her—she don't smoke, and I ain't lettin' her start," Jeff croaked.

"Thanks, dad," the woman replied.

"I'm Brian Rawlins," the man in the front seat offered, his shoulders slouched and his eyes dropping to his lap.

"Johnny—they call me Ringo."

"Johnny Ringo—helluva name, like the gunfighter?" Richard asked, leaning forward into the large space in the center of the vehicle.

"Just like that," Johnny answered nervously.

"You must be pretty handy with the iron!" Richard grinned weakly. Johnny nodded smugly, his eyes focused through the dirty windshield and his fingers still drumming nervously.

"Shee-it…" came Mackenzie's voice quietly from above. "Something like that," she whispered sarcastically. The radio before them snapped to life, and each vehicle in line reported their readiness. Sherman's voice fired across the airwaves after the tenth vehicle checked in.

"Falcon convoy, this is Blackbird Six—all accounted for… let's roll!"


	7. Chapter 7: Deliberations and Dead-lines

**Chapter Seven: Dreams, Deliberations, and Deadlines**

 _The dead called for him in his dreams…_

 _Their filthy voices burbling from rotted necks and taunted him from the black shadows of a restless sleep._

 _In his dreams, their groans repeated his name, over and over again… in drawn-out utterances too easily mistaken for simple grunts or moans._

 _They kept calling him._

 _And the wet, wailing lamentations of the walking ghouls morphed, twisted, and echoed until they became a child's cry, and Amelia's voice took on the raspy hissing of the monsters in the dark._

 _In his dreams, she asked for her mother in the disgusting, terrifying voice of the dead._

 _In his dreams, he fell to the ground, and Amelia slipped from his grasp to be swallowed by the panicked mob of the mortified and the deceased. The echoed screams of 'Mister Brian' became unnerving bellows of 'DADDY HELP ME!'_

 _In his dreams, he dug into the concrete and the asphalt until he had ground his bloody fingers to the first knuckle… staring at the twisted flesh and bone… wondering what it might taste like… lifting the broken stubs towards a salivating mouth…_

 _And he cried even in his dreams. And in his sleep._

 _The dead that he recognized, their faces intact but their eyes lifeless and white, stopped the ceaseless gnashing of their teeth, and cocked their heads in his direction._

 _'Where were you?'_

 _'Why me?'_

 _'Why not you?'_

 _In his dreams, he tried to push them back, but found his arms heavy with the burden of a child that was not his own… her head tucked into his chest… a pink jacket stained by the bloody fingertips he tried to hold her with…_

 _In his dreams, the girl's father appeared from the darkness and reached gently for his child._

 _'I'll take her now,' Allen whispered, a thankful expression flooding his face, softening his eyes as he turned back to Brian. 'She's everything I have, you know.'_

 _"_ She's everything I had."

The voice rang fully in his ears.

 _This is no dream,_ he realized as his eyes fluttered open. The muted but clear voices echoed in hushed tones from the fire pit outside of the cargo aircraft. Some of the softer voices carried less effectively, but Brian could comprehend condolences and comfort.

"My everything," the cracked voice repeated.

Brian sat up quickly and froze. _That's Allen's voice—he's here… he's alive!_ A sudden dread gripped his chest. _Does he know I dropped her? Does he know its my fault?_ His heart pounded and a flood of guilt and shame washed over him, the blood thumping loudly in his temples and pulsing through the tension tightening in his neck. Beside him, his two children slept soundly in the warming interior, their cots drawn closely together. The hard edges prevented the two from forming one bed, but Trevor's arm draped protectively over his little sister, and a fresh wave of remorse assaulted Brian's very soul.

"Everything I had."

 _Had._ Brian keyed on that word. _He knows._ He dropped his head to his hands. A father's rage, fury, and wrath waited for him on the other side of the small entrance door and ladder leading down to the common area. _How many times in Amelia's life have I wondered, no—planned, what I would do to anyone who hurt my little girl? How many times in my head did I rip the very throat from anyone who might have done anything unspeakable to my child? And now his little girl is gone… because I couldn't hold on…_

 _It wasn't my fault!_

 _But she was my responsibility… I told him I'd get her here… she had the cot right next to my own daughter… I read her the same stories every other night… and he made sure that my Amelia was okay in the mornings after his shift at the same time he took Aubrey Lynn to the squadron's restroom…._

 _But somebody hit me… knocked me down… I couldn't hold on!_

 _A man trusted you with his everything._

 _And you lost it._

 _You earned what's coming to you._

Brian looked down at his sleeping children. _I hope they don't hear this._ His back groaned in protest after a restless night on the hard canvas cot, and he drew a deep breath, steeling himself for the coming onslaught of unmitigated indignation from a broken-hearted father.

 _You earned this._

His legs shook tremendously beneath the loose fitting nomex of his filthy flight suit, but they carried him forward. The sunlight stung his eyes as he pushed through the heavy fabric hanging over the doorway, looked down, and considered the circle of men before him. Allen Middleton sat across the fire pit, facing directly towards him. His tear-stained face looked up slowly and their eyes locked.

Brian's heart stopped, then began pounding with furious anticipation from within his throat, nearly choking him in the moment.

"Hey boss," Allen whispered, then lowered his head again.

Brian's heart beat even faster, and he shakily stumbled down the steps to stand behind an open seat at the pit. Silence engulfed the group. Brian wondered what the man knew—what he had been told—what he thought (accused!). He cracked his mouth to speak, and hoped that the spreading dryness throughout his throat would support the words he formed.

"I'm glad you made it, brother," he croaked.

"I found Aubrey Lynn last night," Allen whispered. The profound sadness in the man's voice prohibited any sense of hope from following the statement, and Brian tensed again for the anticipated blows the angry father would rain down in any moment. "We had made it to the other side of base ops and hunkered down in the transient-alert shack," he explained.

 _We,_ Brian thought. _So, more of the maintainers had survived._

"…when we heard all the gunfire down by the squadron," Allen continued. "We tried to get back there… but there were _so many of them…_ so many of them on the flight line… right among the hangars… right up by the fences… we tried but didn't make it very far." His voice trailed off, and his eyes came back up to lock with Brian's. "The big gate by the Dragons was still open, so we crossed through over there—closed it up behind us… don't know why… seemed like the right thing to do at the time…

"We made it around to the ops building," his voice failed again. "My god, what happened?" Another tear streamed down his face, its path marked in dirt and grime, etching his face with dark streaks. "We went inside—shouldn't have done that…". His voice cracked, and his head fell to his hands. "That kid—the one who's always joking and making the damn cricket sounds… he and the short girl—can't remember her name now… wish I'd taken the time to know it, you know? But I don't. They were still there—both of them." He looked up through watering eyes. "The eyes, you know? That's what I can't forget—her eyes." He sighed and leaned back.

"We left—high-tailed it outta there. The doors were all locked, but we could hear them inside—scratching and bumping around… when I saw the building and the way tent city looked, I guess I just kind of assumed Aubrey was in one of those rooms—I wanted to break down every door and see… but the two kids from the desk… they just kept coming. And so we left. I couldn't know. I couldn't see. And I guess maybe that was okay, because there was still a chance, right?

"She was on the road, coming back over between the other two ops buildings. All by herself, right in the middle of the road. I saw her pink sweater—the damned thing that she wanted to wear every night no matter how warm it was… couldn't never talk her out of it… quit tryin' after long enough… stubborn like her momma…

"I saw the sweater and my heart exploded—I started runnin' you know? Everything's gonna be alright now little girl," he sobbed. "Daddy's here."

"But I saw that she was staggering… hurt, maybe? Right? And I ran faster, but it just wasn't right. She wasn't hurt, not anymore."

Phillip put an arm around Allen as the sobs grew stronger, and a heavy silence descended over the rest of the men. Allen sniffled loudly and drew himself up rightly, both hands balled into fists.

 _Here it comes,_ Brian thought.

"I wondered, 'how is she out here by herself? Where the fuck is everyone else?" Allen's voice rose as the memories returned, his eyes looking into the distance—no longer in the present, but seeing the previous night as though he was still there. "And then I saw them in the shadows. And on the side streets… and some of them stuck in the bushes and the cactuses. Angie… Julie… Mickey…. People I didn't know—some civilians… some ops… some from the other squadrons. The injuries… the bullet holes… man, were they just mowing people down?" Another wave of sobs racked the man's chest.

"Who the hell were they, and what did they want? And why did my little girl get caught up in the middle of it? Why us?"

"She was shot?" Brian finally stammered.

"No, but most of the others were," Allen whispered. Brian's mind raced. _Did the second push from the squadron find her? Was it pure coincidence? Did they just wander back together on the second night?_ "And I just froze," Allen continued. "She was right there—my everything. But I couldn't pick her up. I wanted to. I needed to—had to do it. But I couldn't. I didn't want to feel her like that—cold, you know? Didn't want to remember her that way. But I couldn't even turn away—couldn't move. But she turned and looked at me. Those eyes. I can't stop seeing those eyes…" His voice cracked again, and he buried his head into Phillip's embrace.

 _He doesn't know,_ Brian thought. Phillip and Joseph had not been with the first group to leave the squadron, and the others were absent from this morning's gathering. The realization brought no comfort or relief from the anticipated altercation, but rather punched him in the gut with the understanding that the responsibility for losing Aubrey Lynn still rested solely on his shoulders.

And now he had to carry the burden alone.

Brian slowly sat down beside Allen, and slowly placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm sorry, brother," he whispered. Allen nodded through his tears. Brian wondered how long this house of cards might stand. _How long until someone mentions that Aubrey-Lynn was with us?_ His lips parted—the words formed on his tongue, and his grip on the man's shouldered tightened slightly. _Do it now and get it over with. "_ Allen," he started.

Heavy footfalls on the loose gravel reported an arrival behind them, and Brian stopped and looked over his shoulder. A pararescueman walked briskly into the shade of the massive wing. "Who's in charge of the pilots?"

Brian looked around sheepishly for the moment, his confession still hanging heavily in his mouth. "I guess I am," he answered..

"Meeting in the command post aircraft in five minutes," the PJ replied quickly. "Two aircraft to the north." He turned and jogged to the next assembly area where a group of security forces defenders gathered.

Brian looked at Phillip, whose gaze met his own with an understanding nod and unspoken agreement to watch over their mourning friend.

* * *

A generator churned from a pit beside the transport aircraft designated as the temporary command post. Brian marveled at the thought placed into so many details of the hastily-established fallback point as he examined the setup and tried again to force the earlier conversation from his memory. A trench had been dug low enough to fit the gas-powered generator, muffling the sound of the device until one approached to within a few feet. Separate ditches ran away from the unit and aircraft to disperse the exhaust fumes. Camouflage netting hung from the wings, adding to the shelter from the blistering summer sun, and multiple canopy layers both increased the shade and dispersed the smoke from the fire pits set up under the massive airfoils.

Stepping into the transport, he again gazed in awe at the setup. Two giant maps of the base—one satellite imagery, and the other an engineering layout, hung from the walls. Plastic sheets covered the maps, and multiple colors of ink already crisscrosses the printed lines. Towards the nose of the massive bay, a bank of radios lay neatly arranged, and a haggard-looking pair of troops busied themselves over the units. Unlike the billeting aircraft, multiple rows of fluorescent lighting hung throughout the bay, illuminating the space brilliantly. Sherman and Ruben stood before the large maps, pointing to different locations and sketching across the plastic with red and green pens. Brian noticed the other occupants sitting around the tables in the center of the bay; the security forces Master Sergeant— _Jeff,_ he remembered; a pair of local deputy sheriffs and a Tucson Police sergeant huddled together next to a man clad in the olive-green of a border patrol agent. A couple of younger rescue helicopter pilots whose names evaded him at the moment sat quietly at the end of the table. Beside them, Brian recognized a former A-10 pilot who had separated and began flying for the border patrol's air arm. He strode forward quickly and embraced the man, who stood upon recognizing an old comrade in arms.

"Taffy, holy-shit it's good to see you!" Brian gasped.

"Same here, brother—though I do have to say that it's surprising to see someone as fragile as you made it through!" his friend teased. Brian laughed and his mind returned to a far-better time when the two men had been Lieutenants sharing their first overseas rotation. Micah Almazan had earned the nickname _Taffy_ for his innate ability to somehow manage to place himself in the center of the stickiest situations, only to find a way through that his fellow officers could only label as _sweet._ During a combat exercise, he had forward deployed as a ground liaison officer, only to take command of a small unit that he was only supposed to be _advising_ on air-power applications, and lead an ad-hoc assault on a defended opposing-force position in a brazen attack that overran the red-force operations center. On a later occasion, he was rumored to have stolen an Air Force two-ton truck to lead a rescue of civilians stranded during a south-Texas flash-flood. His commander hadn't known whether to court-martial him or award him a medal for valor. After years of fumbling his way through the Air Force bureaucracy, he had hung up his flight suit for a border patrol flight uniform. Brian smiled and thought to himself that Taffy had fought his way through another _sticky situation._

Sherman turned from the map and silently counted the gathered leaders before nodding to Ruben. "Thank you for coming on short notice gentlemen," Ruben began. "Gordon and I have been plotting our current assessment of the base based on his team's feedback plus the reports gathered from each of your groups." _Gordon,_ Brian thought, confused. _Who's Gordon?_ A flash of realization snapped across his mind. _Ruben isn't one to use other's tactical callsigns… 'Sherman' is his callsign… Gordon is his first name._ He shook his head slightly self-consciously and allowed a smile to crack the edges of his lips. Ruben pointed to the large swaths of red-hatched ink on the engineering layout of the base. "These areas represent the known concentrations of…" he trailed off, apparently unsure of how to refer to the walking corpses. "…of the living dead," he offered awkwardly. He drew his pointing stick to the north end of the map. "From what we can reconstruct, the assault that hit the base two nights ago was a three-pronged attack. An unknown hostile group struck the main gate with at least four car bombs—the first was likely a no-kidding vehicle-borne IED that blew a hole in our primary barricades. The rest appeared to be mostly gasoline, incendiary-type devices that ultimately created larger explosions once their gas tanks went up. The citizens from the three safe zones flooded that breach while two assault groups hit us here," he pointed to the northeast corner of the base, "…and here," he explained, pointing to the large solar panel array near the border patrol headquarters near the Swan Road gate on the north, northwest side. "The hostiles' main-effort seems to be have been down the east-side, through base-housing and up to the clinic, which represents their furthest line of advance on that side.

"On the west, we think that they were trying for the security forces building and armory, which says they had some degree of knowledge about the base. From what Master Sergeant Ingram tells us, that attack failed. We don't know if the clinic on the eastern line of attack was their primary objective, or if they wanted base housing and our access to the solar-power grid. Our assumption is that base-housing is currently hostile—most-dangerous course of action." He turned back to the map. "These green lines represent the paths our groups have taken over the last few nights—Gordon, I'll let you take it from here."

"Once the breach had made it as far as base ops, which didn't take long with that many people streaming through the main gate, we moved forward with our squad to assess the situation—that's where we met your group," he said, pointing to Brian. "From there, we moved back towards Wing Headquarters to link up with the command post and give our view of the situation—they were directing blindly up until then."

"Command post was still up?" Brian asked.

"Still _is_ up," Gordon replied. "They're only communicating via SATCOM, which is why we haven't raised them on line-of-sight yet."

"We should be up by tonight," Ruben added.

"Colonel Burson is running the CP," Gordon continued. "He's got about fifteen to twenty personnel with him—intel, communications, and a few others. We're going to pull them out tonight and reset all operations to this location.

"As for the other units," he lowered his voice, turning towards Brian again. "We saw that the Termites are gone," he stated, referring to Brian's squadron. "We didn't get to the Bulldogs or Dragons, but the flightline side is pretty much off limits," he continued, pointing to the red hatches near the hangars. "We don't know why, but the hostiles bypassed the border patrol facilities."

"We have about fifty off-road-capable vehicles fueled and available still over there," the border patrol officer added.

"I think we're alright on vehicles right now," Ruben offered. "We pre-positioned as many trucks over here with additional supplies, and there are about ten Humvees, MRAPs, and a couple MATVs in the reclamation yard over here, but I don't know if they're operational."

"We just had a group of maintainers come in," Brian spoke up. "I know at least one of them does a lot of work on the side with cars—he can help us there."

"The National Guard station south of the base has a good compliment of Humvees," Micah jumped in. "The one right next to the Pima Air Museum—at least they were there the last time I went that way, which was almost two weeks ago. I don't know if they're still there after everything that happened with the Guard."

Brian looked around— _the other guy in the Humvee last night… he was Guard… where is he now?_ "What about the Guard guy we picked up last night?" He asked. "Wouldn't he know?"

Jeff Ingram shook his head. "Tried to find him for this meeting—I don't know where he racked out last night. Once we find him we can ask."

Gordon crossed his arms and nodded before looking over towards Ruben. "Sir, I think we should go with a two-pronged assault tonight. The first, my group, will go to Command Post and get them all out and back here." He looked over towards Brian. "I know you want to check on the other two squadrons—if you're up for it, that'll be our second push tonight."

"Yes," Brian replied immediately, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

"Good," Gordon returned. "You'll take four defenders with you, and I'll take the Sheriffs with me. There are a lot of locations we'll need to secure across the base—lotta survivors probably holed up in the dorms and near the chow-hall. We'll need to hit the exchange and commissary again for supplies." He turned to the group and ran his gaze across each pair of eyes looking back at him. "After we break up here, write down your ideas for where we need to go—we'll start compiling a plan of attack that makes sense once we know a little more about the threat out there."

"I'm headed over to the ammo dump right after this meeting," Ruben added. "There should be about twenty or so troops over there defending. I figure I'm within the support group chain of command, so I'll be able to convince them to open up the lockers and get us all the five-five-six and nine-mil that we can handle. Plus signal flares for decoys."

"I've got better helmets and NVG-rigs than that homebrew shit you guys MacGuyvered-up last night," Gordon laughed. "We've got a few rechargeable batteries, but if we're gonna hit your squadrons, those are some additional supplies that we'll need."

"What's the overall plan?" Jeff asked.

"Safest route is the longest route," Gordon replied. "All the way around the runway again, then breach at the corners by border-patrol. We'll set a distraction fire on Craycroft—strip old tires from some of these birds, and any other trash we can find right here—plenty of wood and gas to set it off. We'll set a second bonfire on the taxiways at the center of the airfield—that should pull the ones on the flightline and clear an ingress / egress route for you along between the hangars and sunshades. We'll hit the CP and egress the way we came in. You guys will have three vehicles-hit the Dragons, then Bulldog buildings and we'll meet back here between your old squadron and the border patrol on this open taxiway."

His voice lowered, and his brow wrinkled worryingly. "Here's the downside, men. After everything was said and done, the base population was well over four-thousand two nights ago. The safe zones just north of the base were set up to accommodate ten-thousand apiece, and there were three of them. We have about one hundred and fifty, maybe a little more with us here in the Boneyard—stragglers coming in all the time. We're going out with less than twenty, and there's potentially thirty-thousand souls unaccounted for. If they're reanimated, that's more of the walking dead than we can handle." He looked squarely at Brian. "Keep a clear egress option at all times—do not get caught in a place with no way out, or one that can be clogged by the dead. Think through your movements—from everything I've seen, these things can't think—they just react. With no stimulation, they kind of go into a low-power mode and just hover around. If the ammo comes through, we should have a good kinetic option, but realize you're going to start drawing attention as soon as you hammer down. Use your flares to distract them." He paused and looked around the room quietly.

"Any questions?" Ruben asked. With only silence, shaking heads, and a palpable nervous tension rising amongst the group, he continued. "Alright then, break up into your groups and go through your individual plans. We move out thirty-minutes after sunset."

* * *

"That was a nice shot," Bob remarked, as he watched Elliott make his series of cuts around the bends of the animal's legs.

"Not too bad for the range I took him from," Elliott grunted as he began to pull on the skin near the rear legs. "Good sized buck for this time 'a year," he huffed. "Haven't seen one this size this far up in some time."

"That oughta quiet down some of the rumblings we've been hearing," the younger man sighed, looking away. "A little fresh meat in the belly seems to make everyone a little happier."

"Not everyone," Elliott groaned. Bob cocked his head slightly in agreement and reached out to steady the wooden trellis holding the deer as Elliott jerked the skin free from the carcass. Almost on cue, Helen rounded the corner, wiping her hands on a stained apron, a worried expression crossing her face.

"D'you think you'll have it butchered in time for supper tonight?" she asked.

"You bet," Elliott mumbled. "As soon as I start pulling shanks, we'll send 'em to you for dressin'—you can turn 'em as quick as we can cut 'em."

The nervous nod Helen returned told Elliott all that he needed to know: the rumblings were growing within the small mountain community of refugees. As the food stocks began to run low, the panic began to seep back into the corners of everyone's conscious thoughts. Water rationing and a lack of daily showers added to the edginess, and at the heart of every disagreement waded Hank Tinsdale and his constant grousing. Elliott narrowed his eyes and sliced his large hunting knife deep across the seams of muscle to begin butchering the buck.

"We'll probably get about a pound per person by the time we're done, maybe a little less," Elliott observed as his blade moved through the animal with a precision forged by a lifetime of experience. "Maybe try to stretch that out over two, maybe three days."

"A little meat in the belly isn't gonna tide things over forever," Bob whispered. "We're going to have to do something. Or that somethings gonna do something to us."

Elliott nodded silently. He had hoped that he could buy time until a message came up from the base or across the airwaves of a viable way forward, but the static that hissed from the speakers only added to his own growing sense of despair. He leaned back onto his heels and wiped the bloody knife with his ragged handkerchief. "How many are we talkin' about right now?"

Helen looked down and dragged her toes through the dirt. "He's got two or three men who keep hangin' on his every word, but a few more—three, maybe four—that keep hangin' around the edges. But they keep noddin' more and more."

Elliott spat a thick stream of dark tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then handed the long, curved blade to his friend. "Bob, you're a rib man. If you wouldn't mind doin' your thing with the carcass, I think I'm gonna head over and jump into the middle of this crap and see if I can't shut it down before it gets outta hand."

"You don't want some backup?"

"No," he smiled. "I figger that might just make those bastards bow up. We just need a little more time—I know they're alive down in the city. We just gotta have some more time for them to let us know what's goin' on."

Bob nodded solemnly, then turned and began guiding the blade through the animal's ribcage. Elliott nodded slowly at his wife, who returned his gaze mournfully, a tinge of fear touching the edge of her eyes. "Be safe," she mouthed. Elliott spat again, then turned and trudged towards the restaurant that had become the meeting-place for the small community.

He heard the rising, animated voices well before he turned the last corner. Hank Tinsdale's voice carried above the others, and Elliott could imagine his balding head turning redder with every word. As he came around the building the voices hushed in an instant, but Tinsdale's sweaty face and bulging eyes perched above pursed lips told the unspoken story. Elliott, the old soldier, lowered his head slightly and trudged forcefully into the fray with what he hoped was more confidence than he felt.

"Gentlemen," he began. He noticed that Hanks hands had balled into fists; a fact he tried to conceal by slowly sliding them towards the rear of his trousers. "We got a good buck this morning—should be some fresh meat on the menu for everyone for a few good meals." He noticed an immediate softening of a few pairs of eyes, and one man— _Jim… James… Jeremy… dammit…_ he couldn't remember the man's name—slid backwards away from the tight circle of three others around Hank Tinsdale.

"A good bit of steak will do just fine," the man whispered.

"Venison," Hank spat under his breath. "Disgusting."

"It ain't mandatory," Elliott continued. "In fact, it's on the house—supper will be served at about six or six-thirty again tonight-"

"I want the keys to the gasoline pump," Hank interrupted.

"Mister Tinsdale, we've been through this before—that gasoline belongs to the town and is for our emergency reserves—"

"YOU WILL NOT CONTINUE TO HOLD US HOSTAGE HERE, MISTER STRANGE!" Hank bellowed.

"No one is holding anyone outside their will," Elliott mustered, feeling the sudden weight of all eyes upon him as the outliers at the edges of the discussion suddenly seemed to weigh which direction to cast their loyalties.

"I want those keys. NOW!" Tinsdale growled.

"Sir, I've told you before. You're free to go at any point, just as you're free to enjoy our _free_ hospitality and _free_ food during this time of uncertainty." Elliott fought against the faltering anxiousness creeping into the edges of his words, and he struggled to suppress the shaking that began welling in his hands. "Look, we're at the top of a goddamned mountain!" He gambled that a small amount of forcefulness in his words might work to convince the belligerent to back down. "You don't need much of any gas to get down off this rock—put your damned car in neutral and you can coast all the way down the highway until you hit the Shell Station on Tanque Verde Road—or I'm sure you can siphon all the gas you need down there in town."

Hanks eyes bulged wider, and the veins in his wet forehead throbbed noticeably above a clenched jaw. "You have gasoline that would allow any of us to get to safety—"

"You have safety here, you dumb son of a bitch!" Elliott could no longer restrain his anger. Hank glared at him, and Elliott noticed that a couple of other men moved closer to the raging man before him. He twitched visibly as sheets of rage washed across his face.

"You will not hold us hostage," he hissed. "You will not decide the fate of the people!" He spun quickly and strode off, four men following tightly on his heels.

Elliott expelled his breath forcefully, feeling his face flush. The man— _Jeremy… Jack…what the hell was his name…_ walked up slowly, his eyes cast low. He shyly extended his hand and shrugged. "Thank you," he whispered. "Some deer meat sounds great for tonight." Elliott grasped his hand firmly, never taking his eyes from the retreating group led by Hank Tinsdale. Elliott turned to him, nodded politely, and strode in the opposite direction. _Dammit,_ he thought as he rounded the bend again. _I should have asked him his name…_

Bob looked up as he placed a set of carved ribs on the growing pile of butchered meat. "How'd it go?" he asked expectantly.

"It's worse than I thought," Elliott sighed. "I gave them a solution."

"And?" Bob asked.

"He wants control," Elliott muttered. "He wants to be the one calling the shots up here."

"What does that mean?" Bob queried, a noticeable hesitation tinging his words. Elliott seemed to ignore the question, and departed silently, leaving his old friend in an awkward silence. Elliott fought the urge to sprint back to his cabin, trying to maintain any fragile semblance of control as he marched resolutely back to his cabin. Pushing through the door, he grabbed the small radio and threw the power switch. He mashed down on the small transmit button and nearly screamed into the handset with what little composure he managed to maintain.

"Kit Kat, you gotta answer me kid," he breathed. "Tell me that you're alive down there and that we still have a chance."

Static hissed through the speaker.

* * *

Trevor watched from the door of the transport aircraft as his father accomplished his final equipment checks. Behind him, his sister laughed softly with a couple of the other children who had made it to the camp with the latest arrivals, and he was relieved to not be her sole source of entertainment for the moment. A fierce spark of resentment shot through his thoughts as he watched his dad buckle the newer helmet and night vision goggles to his head and sling the black assault rifle over his shoulder. _I'm ready to go too,_ he mourned. _I can do more than just babysit._

Almost as though he could read his son's thoughts, Brian stepped towards the ladder extending down from the transport and looked up at his son. "I know you think you should be out there with us, son," he began. "As much as I want to keep you safe back here with Amelia and away from every bad thing that's going on outside these fences, I also know that the day is coming where I'm going to need you by my side out there—we're going to need every able hand that can carry a weapon to do so." He locked eyes with his son, and Trevor could see the corners of his eyes soften in a way that he had rarely witnessed. "I won't lie to you, son," he whispered. "That thought scares the hell out of me—what I've seen out there—what _we_ have seen… but I know I can't stop it from coming…"

A voice deep in Trevor's soul screamed out, _but you don't need me here in the camp anymore! There are adults who won't go out on the missions—family members who can watch the children! I'm ready now!_ His father's eyes never left his, and he recognized the conflict in the older man's thoughts, even through his own sense of frustration. His father's head dropped, and Trevor saw that he gripped the handrail with white-capped knuckles and a fist that trembled slightly in the tense grasp.

"Fathers always look forward to the day that their sons follow in their footsteps," he said softly. "The first time you picked up a baseball, I could see you playing in college or beyond. When you put on that first set of shoulder pads, I couldn't wait for you to feel what it felt like under those lights on a Friday night." He released his grip on the rail and half turned away. "I couldn't wait for the day you found your calling—I always assumed it would be to follow me into the skies." He looked back towards his son. "Son, I've seen a lot of things in combat—most of them from behind the protective windscreen that kept the war away from me physically, but never out of my thoughts. I've killed men. I'm responsible for the death of a child—those things will never go away—that's war.

"The day you told me you were going to be a soldier was one of the scariest days of my life—right up there with finding out we were having a daughter," he tried to joke weakly. "What had been isolated from me in the cockpit would be the life you chose for yourself, and it scared me. But I couldn't even think about telling you that—we all pursue our own hopes and dreams, and in that pursuit we find what we were destined for. Hell, me being a pilot scared the hell out of my mom, and I know there were sleepless nights for your mom when I was downrange…" His voice trailed off again. "I hoped I could just keep horrors of war from you for a little longer.

"And then this happened."

He looked up, a sudden resolution beginning to slide across his face.

"I can't keep you out of this fight forever, son. As much as I want to keep you and Amelia safe, I know that the best way to do that is to make sure you're prepared. Just like we trained on the ball fields to be ready." He locked eyes again, and Trevor could feel the importance of his father's coming words. "Tomorrow we'll start getting you ready. I'll get a better babysitting group for the little ones tomorrow night. But listen to me closely son—this isn't baseball—this isn't football, and it certainly isn't a goddamned video game—there's absolutely zero room for not listening or not paying attention, and you _will not_ go out with us before you're ready.

"But we're going to need you, son." He climbed the stairs and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Trevor watched him go. A conflicting mixture of pride, anticipation, anxiety, and resentment continued to wash over him in waves. In an instant, he felt like he was eight years old again—finding out about another coming deployment… another missed birthday… another trip to a country that so many of his friends couldn't pronounce or find on a map… another memory of the big green deployment bags and the tan uniforms that only came out when his father left for half a year at a time. Unlike those previous trips to a place his father called _the sandbox,_ the coming mission was marked by a growing darkness rather than marks on a calendar, and a mounting anxiety filled the void left by the fading daylight.

Also unlike the combat deployments, there was no mother now to push back the fears and emptiness with a warm hug or comforting word. In the distance, the Humvee engines purred, and the unmistakable clang of charging handles on weapons echoed.

Trevor reached into the box marked _Meals, Ready to Eat_ and grabbed an armful of the brown plastic containers. Pouring water into the chemical heating bags, he found himself repeating his father's words—every time Brian Rawlins had prepared an MRE for his children, he had joked as he added the water, quickly going past the line that read _Do Not Overfill._

"Whoops," he smiled. "I overfilled. Again." The sweet, slightly pungent aroma of the chemical heaters wafted upward, drawing alongside the scent of wet cardboard. Trevor leaned back in the darkness, and listened as the Humvee engines rose as the convoy began rolling out from their staging location, slowly fading into the enveloping darkness of a moonless night. Soon, the only sounds within the dark airplane shell was the soft bubbling of the heaters and the simple giggles of the children. He grabbed the warm packets and slit them open quickly before placing the large brown spoon in each and walking them back to the circle of youngsters. Amelia squealed at his approach.

"Chili Mac!" she yelped happily.

"Wash up before you eat," he instructed, holding out the small bin of wet-wipes for each of the children to pull from. _Damn, I sound like mom,_ he thought. As the group settled down to their meals, Trevor tapped his sister on the shoulder. "I'll be upstairs if you need me—after you guys eat, put on your pajamas and you can play for an hour," he instructed. His sister nodded up at him from a mouth ringed by dark chili. "Make sure you guys eat that all up—and wash your faces when you're done!" The small circle laughed back at him and themselves collectively, and he turned and climbed the ladder leading to the upper deck of the transport.

In the upper compartment, he slid down the row of seats until he came to the stepladder tucked into the rear galley. He pulled the ladder open and pushed through the small hatch that had been cut into the roof of the aircraft. Lifting himself through the small portal ringed with plastic to protect against the monsoon storms of the desert summer, he felt the momentary dizziness associated with the sudden realization of his height above the ground. _Dad would kill me if he knew I was up here,_ he thought as he shuffle-slid back to lean against the massive "T" shaped tail of the aircraft. Settling in to prepare his own dinner, he caught the putrid but somehow sweet scent drifting heavily within the night breezes. The sharp odor of smoke mixed with what he somberly recognized as the aroma of death, and a flickering orange glow on the northern landscape marked the smoldering fires still burning themselves out across the city. He ate his beef stew in silence, his ears straining to hear the first gunshots ringing out across the base while praying for a continued silence.

The night passed slowly. Once the children had been tucked into their sleeping bags, he had wandered closer to the aircraft designated as a command center to listen for the radio transmissions marking the mission's progress. The sharp crack of individual gunshots rang out at regular intervals. These sudden volleys erupting in the darkness carried an uncomfortable realization: though he had watched his dad travel forward to combat operations many times in his life, now _he could hear the battle that he only imagined across all of the previous deployments._ He heard about missions after-the-fact, and only occasionally saw his mother slip and release the façade of strength that she wore proudly. He often wondered what life might be like on the opposite side of the earth, but tonight the stories rose in sudden cracks echoing in the darkness, and Trevor's anxious mind began filling in the tale behind the sightless sounds.

Though the first few had startled him, he began to realize that the steady reports probably signaled progress, and the regular crackles soon faded into the background of his conscious thoughts as he trudged back and forth between the command center and the billeting aircraft where the children snored soundly. On one of his restless wanderings, he noticed Captain Beddoe pacing slowly beneath the camouflage netting outside the command center. He recognized Trevor and nodded.

"Can't sleep, eh big man?"

"No sir," Trevor replied.

"Come on up," the officer called as he started up the ladder. "Things seem to be pretty quiet out there so far."

"So far," Trevor whispered.

Inside the large bay, dim lights illuminated the large maps of the base, and Trevor recognized the older Lieutenant Colonel leaning over the radio set while he updated different colors on the displays. Without turning, he called to the captain, "They're approaching command post—should be on-site in less than five minutes. So far the distractions seem to be working."

The radio exploded in sudden chatter and broken transmissions.

"CP is down!"

"Blackbird Six—we've got contact at twelve o-clock!"

"Guardian, your six is clear—HOLD THE LINE—advance towards CP and try to clear a line!"

"COPY THAT!"

A nearly non-stop cacophony of gunshots began echoing across the night sky, and a fierce but faceless firefight shattered the momentary calm. Captain Beddoe pushed past Trevor and turned to call, "Stay in the back, big man." Trevor slinked back silently, his heart suddenly pounding in his throat and stopping with every crackled reception in the radio's speaker.

"Blackbird Six, this is Deliverance—update when able!" Lieutenant Colonel Alvarado barked into the handset.

"Deliverance, standby—be advised, the command post door was breached and we're in contact from the east side of headquarters!"

Captain Beddoe looked over at the older officer. "Contact? With the living or the dead?" Lieutenant Colonel Alvarado just shook his head and stared at the handset. "Those only sound like M-4s," he continued as the other man nodded slowly. He turned and looked at Trevor, then nodded slowly towards the door. Trevor understood, and moved gradually for the exit, hoping to hear his father's voice just once on the transmissions—just enough to know that he was okay for the moment… no matter what direction the battle turned… that for right now at least, he was okay.

"TEAM ONE, BREACHING CP NOW!"

"JESUS! OH JESUS-"

And suddenly he didn't want to hear any more sides to the story. The gunfire raged ferociously through the warm air, while the distant rumbles of thunder and flashes of blue lightening only piled dread upon fear as he hastened his footsteps back towards his ramshackle home in the large airplane.

 _Just stop,_ he begged the gunfire. _Just stop so I know it's over and just have to wait out the return…_ he prayed. The shots continued, and as he collapsed on his cot, he covered his ears and tried to drive his palms into his head until the throbbing pain replaced the angry cracks with a dull roar enveloped by a morose darkness.

 _I don't want to be a part of this…_

It seemed that the gunfire continued for hours, and an eternity passed before an agitated chatter within the compound signaled the approach of the convoy. Trevor flew from his cot and drew as close as he dared to watch the vehicles as they sped between the massive aircraft and skidded to a halt near the transport designated as a hospital. Dark forms jumped from the vehicles and Trevor saw the shadows bearing stretchers from the rear of the trucks. His eyes jumped from form to form in search of any recognition of his father, but the bulky military equipment turned the silhouettes into uniform masses and faceless voices.

"DOC! TWO MORE IN THE LAST VEHICLE!" a voice shouted. More shadows raced towards the rear of the convoy, and additional stretchers appeared. He edged closer, holding close to the skin of the large aircraft, eyes straining to discern any familiarity in the darkness. As he drew near the middle of the convoy, he recognized Major Farrell—the blonde-haired Californian they called "Dude," who collapsed to one knee and dropped his head in exhaustion.

"Mister Farrell?" Trevor called weakly. "Where's my dad?"

Brady looked up, recognized Trevor, and cursed under his breath. "Not now bud," he grunted as he forced himself to his feet and ran towards the hospital entrance. Trevor felt a stabbing shot of fear course down his back— _dad's friends only reacted like that when something bad happened…_ he thought, his mind gripped in a sudden panic. A hand clapped down on his shoulder like a hammer, and Trevor jumped into the air.

"Trevor, come on—I need your help!" his father's strained voice shouted as the hand on his shoulder pulled him into action. Half-stunned, he stumbled to keep up as his father sprinted towards the last vehicle in the convoy, where his dad stopped suddenly and fumbled through a small bag on his hip. He pulled a pair of heavy rubber gloves out and threw them at his son. "Put those on—and here," he held a heavy shirt and clear glasses out. "Put this over your face and get these glasses on—HURRY!" All vestiges of worry faded, and Trevor fumbled with the unfamiliar gear as he struggled to execute the commands. Trembling slightly, he followed his father to the back of the truck, where he began pulling a final stretcher. His breath fogged the edges of the goggles from beneath the heavy fabric covering his face, and he struggled to comprehend what he saw before him. "Grab the handles as they come out—DO NOT DROP HER!" his father roared.

Her. The body on the stretcher was a she. Long blonde hair, matted in dirt and black blood spilled across the edges of the stretcher, and Trevor reached for the two metal handles as his father pulled the device to the edge of the bed.

"Let's go, I'm leading!" his dad shouted, and Trevor tried to keep his eyes up. The woman below him moaned in deep, wet, hacking bellows. One arm was wrapped in bandages that had bled-through and were now stained nearly black in what little light shone around them. He struggled to keep up and prayed that he wouldn't trip on the uneven ground. They rounded the corner to the cargo ramp, and a large form bounded out of the periphery and gently nudged Trevor out of the way.

"I'll take her, buddy," the man called Sherman groaned as Trevor released his hold on the stretcher. He noticed the row of cots suddenly occupied by wailing forms—five, no six—six injuries—seven with the woman they just brought up. Another hand on his shoulder, and Trevor looked up to see Captain Beddoe standing above him.

"Come on big man—come with me. You don't want to see this," he whispered.

 _But I do,_ he thought. _I need to see this. I need to know._

He turned and followed the young officer into the night.

Gordon Meade held her hand in the dim light. The air in the hospital bay had grown dank in the hot summer sun, and the open cargo doors did little to clear the heavy aroma of death and rot that grew from the moaning cots. She slept for the moment, but her color continued to fade and the fever continued to rise, drawing tiny beads of sweat across her dirty forehead. Her condition had worsened over the last three days, and every breath she took now seemed to rattle with more difficulty and strain than the last.

Gordon's thoughts drifted backwards no matter how hard he tried to prevent the recollections. The first sight upon reaching the command post continued to haunt his every contemplation and he fought to erase the memory. But the image of the heavy steel door cast wide open brought forth the same icy feelings of complete dread that he had felt as the vehicle had skidded to a stop. The sounds gurgling disgustingly from the darkness in the building, intertwined with the moans of the injured and the occasional scream attached to the victim of another attack continued to ring in his ears.

 _Wars are won and lost on the mistakes of individuals…_

In her semi-lucid moments, Kara had explained that a young airman had made a run from the command post back up to the Wing Headquarters—she didn't know what the errand had been, but a guard had been posted to hold the door that now could only be opened from the inside; on emergency power, they had lost the cameras that provided a view of the porch and as such, required a sentry for entry. Hearing footsteps, the sentry had opened the door, anticipating his comrade's return, only to be greeted by a group of snarling dead. Being unable to operate the inner security door by himself, he had left that second barrier undefended, and the ghouls made their way into the secure command post. The same young troops had been their primary radio operators, and in the fight to defend the post, no one had made a call for help.

The convoy arrived exactly one hour later.

They pulled six injured out of the command post, and four escaped unscathed. Gordon Meade's fiancé, Kara Burns, had been bitten on the forearm. Two of the others had already died since returning to the Boneyard; the flight surgeon who had escaped from the command post unharmed carefully timing the moment of death through the reanimation before committing a final act of mercy on the resurrected corpses. He had attended to Kara while Gordon led continued missions back into the base, returning each time with fewer survivors and a growing sense of futile frustration. The plans seemed feasible at the outset and provided enough motivation in each mission that the convoys continued to roll out from the Boneyard with a distinct impression of _purpose._

"We're going out with one thousand rounds," Gordon had proclaimed. "I don't intend to return with any more than we'd need to defend ourselves to get through the perimeter—we're going out to retake our base, and we're going to drop one thousand of those _things_ per mission."

 _It had sounded great._ The troops agreed—happily packing the rounds into additional magazines and securing heavier loads of ammunition and medical supplies to their personal rigs before mounting up. But the growing sense of trying to hold back the ocean quickly overwhelmed them. They returned from each raid exhausted but content in the appreciation of mission-accomplishment, only to recognize a lack of forward progress the next night as the ranks of the dead seemed to swell; their fallen were replaced two-fold, and a sense of dread that they might eventually breach the chain-link barrier between their small camp and the horrifying reality of the new order. Follow-on missions still carried the promise of hope, gusto, and motivation, but a little less with each order.

The red areas on the map seemed to grow larger with every mission reconstruction.

And then there was the reality of the results. The stated goal of putting down a thousand walking corpses per night left the streets riddled with mangled, rotting corpses. Thick clouds of flies swarmed through the skies, and the putrid stench spread until it seemed impossible to avoid it; their clothes carried the scent and their nostrils seemed permanently infected by the nauseating odor. Without an ability to police up and properly dispose of the dropped corpses as they continuously defended against the surging ghouls, the carnage swelled in the streets.

A slight noise behind him drew his attention, and he turned slightly to see Brian Rawlins standing respectfully to the rear of the hospital ward in the darkened aircraft bay. He nodded in the other man's direction, then turned to bring his mouth close to Kara's flushed face.

"We're still here, and we won't stop fighting," he whispered. "I love you." He squeezed her hand slightly and mopped the latest beads of sweat from her forehead before standing to address the other officer. He hadn't been too sure about Rawlins after their first two meetings—the man didn't strike the combat rescue officer as much more than just another fly-boy; too much self-confidence that nearly derailed the lives of the men he was entrusted to lead by their hasty adventure into the base. But, three nights ago, as he found himself trapped between an advancing wall of the dead forcing their way through the only exit of the command post—Kara draped unconscious across his broad shoulders in a fireman's carry—when the sudden realization hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut that he had made the wrong decision and would now pay for it with his own life… the sinking realization washing up through his conscious thoughts with a powerful remorsefulness and unexpected regret…

A bright set of headlights appeared behind the dead, silhouetting get their grotesque forms and hideous shapes before the rapidly approaching beams. Brian Rawlins had driven that humvee straight into the wall of dead and slammed the hood of the vehicle into the doorway of the command post, shaking the steel-reinforced concrete to the foundation. Waterfalls of dust poured from the ceiling, the walls cracked and the doorway buckled and bent. The Diesel engine howled in protest as he threw it into reverse and pulled out of sight. The dead still clogged the exterior of the door, though thinned out considerably.

And then the engine screamed from another direction. Belts whined with an increasing fury as the thick vehicle streaked across the exterior wall, dragging the side panels against the blistered and broken concrete walls and scraping the remaining corpses from the now-cleared exit. Steam and smoke began pouring from beneath the hood from a dying motor, and Brian lept from the vehicle.

"This one's done," he shouted. "Convoy's in the parking lot—ready to roll!" Gordon noticed the other pilots—the one's called Country, Dude, and Sloth—advancing quickly from their new egress direction. While conducting their separate mission to the other fighter squadron buildings, they had heard the desperate radio calls and immediately rushed to support. A hand on his wrist—his fellow pararescueman—Staff Sergeant Jerry Crawford, began pushing him forward.

Jerry's deep drawl bellowed from behind, strained by the weight of the injured man he carried on his own shoulders. "We've got all weah gonna git! Gotta move boss!" Behind Jerry, Staff Sergeant Edwin Blackburn supported two additional walking wounded, and Gordon caught the desperate but determined look in each man's eyes.

They ran.

Each night, that same determination returned, but less forcefully with each sunset. He found himself trusting Brian Rawlins and his group of pilots more with each passing day—they proved to be less the stereotypical fighter pilots—arrogant, rambunctious, rowdy, (although he recognized the flashes of these characteristics in them just as he did in himself and his PJs)… and more the dedicated and effective attack pilots they were renowned to be. Their constant study of ground tactics proved invaluable as they transitioned to their new roles, and Brian Rawlins demonstrated a careful counterweight to his own deliberations and directions.

There had been some successes. The mission to the remaining two fighter squadrons had turned up twenty survivors who had managed to huddle inside their own secure areas, and a small group of about a dozen young airmen had been found in one of the dormitories. They had secured batteries and additional communications equipment, as well as the complete stores of small-arms ammunition in the base ammo dump. Multiple missions to the base exchange and commissary had swelled the stores of consumable supplies and clothing.

He joined the pilot in the hazy sunlight at the aircraft's rear ramp.

"How's she doing?" Brian asked.

"She's fadin' fast," Gordon whispered. "I think tonight's the night."

Brian nodded remorsefully. "I'm sorry, brother," he muttered. Gordon nodded appreciatively and tried to force his gaze upward. "I can take the mission tonight—you stay here with her," Brian offered.

Gordon shook his head. "I've been thinking about that. I'm not sure we need to keep going out there." He crossed his arms and turned to look at the descending sun. "We've got plenty of ammo, but everything we clear gets overrun by the next night—they just keep coming."

"What about survivors?"

"That's the only thing that keeps me going," Gordon replied coolly but resolutely. "We've got just about everything we need for sustainment—the last few runs to the exchange and commissary got us enough supplies to take in another two hundred people but…" his head dropped involuntarily. "I'm not sure we can stay here."

"You don't think the fence will hold?"

"Not forever," Gordon returned quietly. "I think we've been lucky—the perimeter's just too damned big to effectively patrol and secure."

"Good tactics have helped too," Brian returned.

"Good tactics only last so long," Gordon sighed. "The numbers—they're everywhere, and it seems like there's more of them every night. All it takes is one wrong turn… one guy leaves a door open… one guy makes a sound at the wrong time or gets their attention…" He looked Brian in the eye. "That fence won't hold back a thousand of them pushing against it." He dropped his head again. "I just don't get it—your squadron was overrun, but the one closest to the fighting was almost unscathed. The new dormitory—destroyed… the old one, ten or so survivors. Security Forces—war zone… Border Patrol, nothing damaged." He squeezed his head and rubbed the edges of his brow forcefully. "So goddamned random—you can't plan against random."

"What about her idea to get up to Mount Lemmon?"

Gordon nodded slowly. "I've been thinking a lot about that too."

"Do you think it's a viable option?"

"I think it doesn't matter what I think," Gordon sighed. "I think, sooner or later, if we don't make a call, the decision will be made for us." He looked off into the distance. "I think we need to try to stay ahead of the game." He turned back to Brian. "What do you think?"

"She's got family up there—it's far enough away from all this… I think it's worth a shot." Brian smiled weakly. "Besides, you know that the town up there used to be a defensive army outpost?" Gordon narrowed his eyes, and Brian continued. "Yeah, in the eighteen-hundreds… Fort Lowell down in the city—they used the mountain as a defensive camp against the Apache raids."

"How do you know all that?" Gordon asked, slightly bemused by the distractive information.

"Took a tour… did some reading… just seemed to enjoy reading up on local history," Brian replied sheepishly.

"Defensive camp," Gordon considered. "I guess that makes sense." He exhaled loudly and leaned up against the wall of the aircraft. "We've got enough supplies… vehicles… guns…" his voice trailed off. "We need to get as many people as we can—however many are still alive out there… finish up collecting anything else we might need…"

"Two, maybe three more nights?"

Gordon lowered his head and looked at his crossed arms silently. His head nodded slowly, and turned back towards the row of cots in the hospital ward. "I'll be back to the CP in a few hours. Give me a plan for how many more raids you think we need to make into the base—something that makes sense and targets the locations we haven't cleared yet—I want to make sure we're not shaving off our numbers in a blind search for what _might_ be out there—make sure we're staying smart and not getting desperate." Before the other officer could answer, a voice called out from deep inside the aircraft.

"Major Meade, I need you back here." The cracked, uncertain tone told him more than he wanted to hear in the moment, and an unfamiliar dread squeezed his heart.

 _Kara's time is up._

The tough combat veteran shuffled up the ramp on chattering legs that threatened to buckle from beneath him with the added burden of what awaited amongst the row of cordoned-off cots. The smell hit him about the same time as the shadows swallowed him; the sweet but nauseating putridness of rot—death, and pending death—hung heavily in the dank air. In the small, private area lined with hanging sheets, the thin flight surgeon stood, his hand on Kara's shoulder. Her breath came in tight, raspy wheezes that seemed to grow faster but weaker with each exhalation. Her eyes fluttered slowly, and came to rest on Gordon's as he entered the room. He quickly knelt and took her hand again.

"From everything I've seen with the other patients, it's coming soon," the doctor said, almost apologetically.

Kara's dry, cracked lips parted; she tried to form words, but only a light hissing escaped.

"It's okay, I already know," Gordon whispered. Her eyes flickered, and she drew a labored breath to try again. He wanted to lie to her—to tell her that everything was going to be okay and how she'd make a full recovery soon. He wanted to tell her about the coming trip to the mountain, and about how the two of them would be able to start again there, rebuilding the dreams that the past few days had shattered. He wanted to inspire strength within her, but the whitening of her features and the blue veins already straining against her skin argued with any intentions he carried. Her bloodshot eyes refused to abandon his own, and he could see her mouth shaping her intended words. She winced in the effort and raised her head slightly towards his own. He squeezed her hand tighter, almost willing the strength from his body into hers. Her tongue pressed into the roof of her mouth, and the word came in a heart-wrenching whisper.

"Live," she rattled. Her fingers tightened around his, and then she fell back into the cot, limp. Her breath slid quietly from between her lips, and her fell chest emptily.

"Kara, no!" Gordon whimpered. He pressed his hand into hers again, and dropped his head to her chest. His fingers instinctively closed around her wrist, years of medical training guiding his reactions. He felt the pulse fade, and a decade of combat experience failed to hinder the emotions that crashed through his heart and poured silently from his eyes. Drawing a stifled breath and trying to hide the slight sob that drummed its way into his breath, he failed to hear the quiet click of the stopwatch in the doctor's hand. He pulled her closer and whispered forcefully in her ear… begging her to come back to him…

A hand on his shoulder. A soft voice from above and behind. "Gordon, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," the doctor continued quietly. "You have about four minutes."

A ray of conscious recognition pierced the dark fog swirling in his mind. The combat veteran awoke in that solitary beam, and seemed to add his voice of reasoned rationality to the din and friction wracking his soul in that moment.

 _Four minutes. She turns in four minutes._

Gordon wanted to ignore that voice. He wanted to hold her until that moment, and just allow the new balance of things make its own decision on his fate. He lowered her to the cot and softly closed her eyes. Her fever had gotten so high that he felt the fire fade immediately as she passed, and he ran his fingers across her forehead. The pain seemed to have faded from her face, though her skin looked so gray, waxy, and almost translucent around the blue streaks. He stared down at her and thought he could almost see the color continue to fade.

 _Three minutes._

He had never wanted to allow someone to get so close to his heart. He had always placed the mission first, and never felt that a dedicated leader in such conditions could find a place for an emotion that so easily clouded men's judgement as love could do. He had cloaked himself in the tough but haggard emotional armor of a warrior monk and convinced himself that such solitude was merely a requirement of the profession he had chosen.

Until Kara had forced her way into his heart.

She had been tough— _tougher than him_ , he had often joked. She figured him out quickly, and he knew that he had been wrong about his direction when she pulled him close that fateful night, locked eyes and ordered, "Love me!"

And he had.

 _Two minutes._

"Gordon," the doc's quiet voice called from behind him. He continued to look at her, and a single tear fell from his cheek and landed on her broken, greying lips. "Gordon, I can do it—you don't have to."

 _You don't have to._

He knew what that meant. Every round he had fired over the last three nights—hundreds of them—each one aimed specifically for the head of one of the walking ghouls… aimed right between the eyes or through the ears… _the only way to bring them down…_ He wondered if he should just let her turn— _If there's any way to know if there's any recognition in there… any hope for the future… any hope for a cure… if they come back after five minutes, maybe they're still in there… the brain dies when the brain stem dies… three to four minutes without circulation… maybe… just maybe it's still Kara—maybe she won't be like the others…_

The hand squeezed his shoulder tighter, and the cognizant professional cut through his mental fog again. _Let him do his job. You don't have to remember her that way._ He looked down at her face once again, and the voice of reason whispered forcefully. _Remember her this way._

 _One minute._

He bent in close and kissed her forehead. The moist skin had cooled back to what seemed a normal temperature, drawing again a deep conflict within his soul. He rose to his feet, feeling as if an invisible hand drug him up rather than moving of his own accord. Feet he could no longer feel lumbered beneath a swaying torso, and he reached out with an unsteady hand to brace himself against the warm metal wall. He passed Brian Rawlins, who placed a hand on his shoulder respectfully. He heard the shuffling behind him and knew that Doc Boone was making his final preparations. Gordon willed his feet to move faster—he didn't want to hear the slightest sound that marked the operation behind him. He stumbled down the ramp, and when he heard the sharp report of metal on metal—a hammer coming down on a spike, he somehow found the strength to move purposefully.

Out of sight from the others, he collapsed in the shadows of the large aircraft. A lifetime of denied memories flashed mournfully—moments that they'd never have the chance to create. A blinding red rage began to creep into his peripheral vision, and his right hand instinctively moved down his thigh, coming to rest on the nine-millimeter pistol strapped into the black holster.

 _I'm coming with you Kara._

The weapon slid from its soft leather casing almost silently. Gordon didn't need to check the chamber—he maintained a weapons status 'red' at all times in a combat zone, and he considered this terrifying nightmare of a reality to be just that. His head began to swim, and his thoughts drifted drunkenly across eyes that could no longer focus on the hazy world teetering before him. He leaned forward, elbows propped against his knees, and drove his forehead down until the black barrel of the pistol came to rest between his eyes, the small protrusion cool against his throbbing temples. He slowly dragged the steel down the bridge of his nose… past his nostrils… over his upper lip, and inserted it between dry lips. With the weapon turned sideways, he dug his teeth into the contours of the forged slide and bit down as if to prevent the pistol from being pulled backwards. The metal flared an almost electric tinge through his mouth, and the bitter-smooth oil finish tainted his tongue.

 _I want to feel the flash,_ he thought. He no longer debated the next moment, but allowed his mind to carefully contemplate the coming sensations. He wondered how much of that flash he'd be able to feel… whether that brilliant muzzle report within his mouth would register behind his closed eyes… how long it might take to go dark… _and how long before I can hold her again…._ A lifetime of faith interjected. _After the flash, you know you'll never see her again—you know the teachings and result of this decision._

 _Hell._

But how could hell be any worse than the reality unleashed upon the earth? How could any one person be expected to deal with the terrifying horrors of a world where the contents of hell itself already poured out across the landscape? _Do it, and forget about ever seeing her again._ Two different voices seemed to hiss in opposite ears, pulling his mind in differing directions, and apart at the seams. _But if there's a chance, any chance at all… isn't she worth it? Just to see her again… to hold her again… before all of this… isn't that worth offsetting an eternity of damnation?_

His finger caressed the trigger, stiffening as it began to slide the device backwards.

 _I'm coming with you._

 _Double action. Trigger-pull required: twelve point three pounds. Pull._

The hammer drew backwards.

 _I want to see the flash. I want to taste the fire. I want to feel the steel jacket turn my thoughts into a consciousness. I'm coming with you, Kara._

A cool hand on his shoulder.

Kara's blue eyes before him, her blonde hair billowing in the soft summer breeze. Her voice clear in his ears.

" _Live for me."_

His fingers trembled, and the steel slide chattered against teeth he tried to keep clenched. A sudden urge to vomit boiled up from his chest, and he spit the weapon out forcefully. Tears fell silently from his eyes, and he allowed the barrel to fall into the dirt near his feet. The hand on his shoulder faded, and his trembling increased. As the world came back into focus, he heard her again, and her voice carried an order, not a simple suggestion.

"Live for me."

Shadows lengthened in the fading light of the late afternoon. Gordon sat motionless, his right hand still clutching the pistol. All sense of time abandoned him until the soft crunching of boots against the rocky dirt fell upon his ears. He blinked the world around him into clarity, feeling the dry stickiness of crusty eyelids struggling to function again. Brian Rawlins stood at the tail end of the aircraft and approached slowly, respectfully observing the heavy silence surrounding Gordon Meade. As he drew near, he opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes caught the sight of the pistol near his foot, and he stumbled on his words.

"Sherman," he attempted. "I—I don't know what I could possibly say right now." Brian's eyes never left the weapon. "I can't pretend to be able to take this burden from you—I can't pretend that I could even begin to carry it for you either." He kneeled and placed a hand on Gordon's still-quivering shoulder. "But we're here, brother. We're standing shoulder to shoulder."

Gordon looked over to him slowly, and tried to nod in an accepting appreciation. He noticed Brian's hand inching towards the weapon, and he drew back slightly. "You don't need to worry about that," he croaked, his voice cracked and strained. "I ain't usin' it." Brian froze, an apparent embarrassment streaking behind his eyes.

"I—I didn't mean to—"

"No, you did the right thing—I'd have done the same to you," Gordon muttered. Brian looked at him as an awkward silence washed across the two men.

"What now?" He finally asked.

"Now I get through tonight without eating a bullet. I tell myself, just get through tonight, and maybe you can do it tomorrow. And when tomorrow comes, I say, 'just get through today—maybe you can do it tonight if you can just get through today…' and I repeat until the urge to push a nine-millimeter, full-metal-jacket ball through my brain gets replaced by something else—anything else." He looked into the distance again. "She was my everything—never thought I'd have room for a woman in my life, much less someone like her that I could actually," his voice cracked painfully. "…that I could actually _love._

 _"_ So much hate in this world—so much of everything but that kind of love for one other human being required in this job…

" _She was my everything."_

* * *

It had been a long time since Helen Strange had seen her husband brandish the pistol on his hip up on the mountain. On trips down into the city, "that place," he called it, he often strapped the worn but polished 1911 to his belt, but rarely carried the weapon around Summerhaven. "Just don't need it up here," he would muse through the crooked smile beneath his bushy grey mustache. As such, her heart skipped a beat when he pulled the old pistol from its case and slid it into the oil-rubbed leather holster again.

 _That's how bad things have gotten,_ she worried. _That's how things are now._ Behind her husband, his old army buddy Bob finished reassembling the hunting rifle and slid the bolt home with a loud _clank._ He stood, and Helen noticed that an old revolver also hung from his belt as well.

Tensions rose in the absence of any news. Each night, a few more of the townsfolk edged closer to the clamor rising from Hank Tinsdale's angry rantings. More heads nodded in agreement to his empty plans and calls for an order agreeable to his opinions. Elliott, Bob, and a few of the long-time town residents did what they could to safeguard the access to the water, fuel, and food supplies, but the atmosphere continued to simmer towards a perceived and rapidly-approaching boiling point.

And she was afraid.

The two men whispered in hushed tones, and the passing of numbers between them suggested that they reviewed the latest stockpile assumptions, and the shared looks of desperation fueled her own growing sense of despair. A loud knock at the door to their humble cabin snapped her back into the present. Elliott offered her a sly grin betrayed by the seriousness in his eyes. "Expecting someone?" he chortled. Helen shrugged absently as her husband reached for the door.

An older man with a slight build stood nervously on the doorstep, his downcast eyes flickering back and forth. Elliott recognized him as one of the townsfolk refugees, but could not recall his name.

"What can I do for you Mister, um—" Elliott began.

"Jones, sir. My name is Brad Jones," the man returned quietly.

"What can I do for you Mister Jones?" Elliott repeated.

 _"_ I, um…" the man stammered. "Um, Mister Tinsdale asked me to pass along a message."

"A message?" Elliott growled. "What kind of a _message?"_ His right hand moved backwards so that his wrist rested behind the grip of the pistol on his hip.

The man sighed heavily and looked back and forth uncomfortably before raising a pair of haggard eyes that pleaded, _please sir, I'm just the messenger. "_ Mister Tinsdale says that you have until noon tomorrow to give him access to the gasoline pumps and water mains."

"He does, does he?" Elliott's hand moved to rest on the pistol's butt. His fingers drummed the hammer. "And what, pray tell, happens at noon tomorrow?" Behind him, Bob unslung the hunting rifle from his shoulder and held it at the low ready position across his chest.

The man shrugged uneasily. "I was just asked to—"

"Well, you have," Elliott interrupted curtly, closing the door firmly. Helen realized that she had been unconsciously holding her breath throughout the entire confrontation, and she exhaled sharply. Bob lowered his rifle and looked to Elliott anxiously.

 _"_ Now what?"

Elliott continued drumming his fingers along the well-worn grips on the old pistol. "How many you figure we might have on our side?"

Bob chuckled uncomfortably. " _Our_ side? Hell, maybe ten at the most." He narrowed his eyes nervously. "Most everyone left when this all went down."

"How many guns you figure we got amongst us?"

"Not much more than what you've got in here—which I'd say is a lot more than _they've_ got," Bob whispered almost wishfully.

"Guess it all depends on how many folks Tinsdale shows up with tomorrow then," Elliott muttered.

"Are we going to cook tonight?" Helen asked meekly.

"We're not changing a thing," Elliott reassured her. Turning back to Bob, he growled under his breath, "Get anyone you can trust—make sure they're armed. That means tonight at the restaurant too." Helen's eyes widened at Elliott's sudden aggressive resolve, and he turned to her. "I'm not taking any chances."


	8. Chapter 8: Into the ashes

**Chapter Eight: Into the Ashes**

Dozens of small fire pits half-heartedly pushed the shadows back as the flames licked quietly at the sides of the high structures designed to prevent the light from being seen from a distance. The survivors of Davis-Monthan huddled in groups mostly arranged by their career fields, joined by what family members—"dependents" in military-speak—who had managed to endure the horrors of the last few weeks. 'The Battle of DM,' as they had started to call it, had begun one week prior, and the collapse of the local community seemed to be paralleled across the nation— _probably the world,_ some had postulated.

Radio and satellite communications with higher headquarters came with a lessening frequency as other bases fell to the spreading plague. Confirmations of similar firebombing raids striking major American cities had sent sobering shockwaves through the survivors as word spread of the carnage. Los Angeles and San Diego: shelled by the Navy. Atlanta: in flames. Las Vegas: an epicenter of death and destruction… the reports continued to add to the horrifying picture of collapse until the airwaves went silent.

Across the camp, eyes mostly turned downward with many souls in deep, personal reflection. An occasional, weak smile flashed at someone's feeble attempt at humor, and the prospect of the next day's movement brought slight flickers of anticipation. The groups kept mostly to themselves, though some floated between the sputtering fires. Brian looked at the gathered group leaning in towards their own pit and could only think about the faces absent from the somber congregation. For every survivor that had managed to make it to the Boneyard, he could count through five or six noticeably missing. The stories that had been passed down during these quiet moments described the horrific fates some had met—others were simply missing in action—MIA— _unaccounted for_.

Jim Evans—a tough squadron commander—had shepherded his charges into their secure vault—counting and pushing each as they passed the heavy steel door. Occasionally brash, sometimes critiqued for his decisions, the man had stood outside the safety of the secure area until the very last moment, shouting encouragements and praises to those moving through the portal. Against the rising conflagration of fire, gunshots, and the horror of the dead, he had remained remarkably calm. But, when the door closed and locked, he himself was unaccounted for.

Keith Laubacher's voice had been last heard on the reserve squadron's common frequency. He directed his surviving wingmen to launch while he dealt with his own situation as a mass of dead clogged the large landing gear under his aircraft. None of the surviving squadron members knew how many of their own aircraft had managed to get airborne during the melee.

Brian looked around again. Old friends—combat veterans and close comrades—new faces and the frightened visages of dependents… but he only saw the missing and the dead. Aubrey Lynn danced happily behind her father. His wife rested her head on his shoulder as she snuggled Amelia closer in the warm summer air. Countless others laughed behind faces slowly turning grey until their white and featureless eyes turned to lock with his own and their voices trailed off into the disgusting gurgles of the dead. Aubrey Lynn stopped dancing. Her ashen face and pupil-less eyes turned slowly towards her father, and she lunged at his neck, her mouth wide open… hungry… reaching for him…

Brian jerked awake. Phillip placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "It's alright bro," he whispered. "Here, have a thin one." He pushed the large bottle of whiskey into Brian's shaking hands, and he gladly poured the light brown elixir into his tin cup. Footfalls sounded across the evening air, and two pararescuemen stepped into the dim glow. Brian recognized them from their many pre-mission meetings. Staff Sergeants Jerry Crawford and Edwin Blackburn ambled into the midst and proffered a bottle of Scotch to the pilots.

"Thought y'all could use a little something to keep yer-sefs warm on our last night in the Boneyard," Jerry drawled. Brian noticed that the skinny young helicopter pilot—Lieutenant Bobby Tyler, followed a few paces behind the PJs.

"Much obliged," Richard returned. "We're havin' ourselves a little session with our good friend John Daniels—help yourself!"

" _John_ Daniels?" Edwin asked.

"When you're as close as we are to the man, you're allowed to call him John," Brady grinned weakly.

"Never pass up good Scotch, assholes," Joseph instructed as he reached for the green bottle.

"How's Sherman?" Brian asked.

"He's holdin' up al-ight," Jerry replied easily. "Buryin' himself in the mission—that's what he does. He's preppin' the route for tomorrow and double-checkin' the rigs."

"I'll probably hit him with a tranq later to get him some sleep," Edwin mused.

"Random question," Brian began. "But, why do you guys call him 'Sherman?'"

Jerry laughed. "Y'all remember the movie 'American Pie?' Well, turns out ole' Gordo—err, _Major Meade—_ weren't always the physical specimen he is t'day." He laughed, and pulled a pinch of dip from the round tin can. "Matter-a' fact, the good Major looked just like that freaky lookin' kid in the movie—the one they called the Sherminator—"

"Hell, I got his freshman pic on my phone if I can ever get a crack at rechargin' it," Edwin laughed.

Brian smiled. "The Sherminator."

"Ah wouldn't recommend callin' him that," Jerry grinned. "We jus-'bout named him that very thing, and some of us still got the scars from what followed." He took a pull from the offered whiskey. "We settled on 'Sherman' after that."

Phillip fumbled in small duffel bag behind his folding chair, produced a handful of shot glasses, and began lining them on the edges of the brick fire pit.

"Where'd you get those?" Brian asked.

"From the Bulldogs—the raid I went on."

"Nice," Joseph offered sarcastically. "We were scrounging batteries, radios, and NVGs, and you're looting the bar."

"Didn't hear you complaining when I pulled out the Jack," Phillip retorted.

"Gentlemen," Jose Reyes, one of the pilots recovered in the secure vault of the sister squadron, interjected. "We will not be arguing amongst ourselves over the status of anything related to alcohol." Even in the dim light, his wide, easy grin framed his dark round face, and the mood lightened further. Ignoring the taunts and retorts, Phillip poured a small shot of whiskey into each glass, and then picked one up before turning to address his brothers.

"To the fallen and the missing. I salute Colonel Michael Ferrer, Colonel Floyd Burson, and Lieutenant Colonel Keith Laubacher—Godspeed brothers." He threw back the shot, grimaced slightly, and cast the glass forcefully into the fire. The shattering glass further broke the tension, and emotions flowed freely in the night. Each man raised a glass and called the names of as many of the missing or deceased before following in the tradition. As the glasses thinned and the bottle emptied, a shorter man stepped from the darkness and reached for one of the remaining shots.

Malachi Hartnett ambled forward, his shoulders slumped forward and his thick cheeks drooping without any trace of the unbridled arrogance he normally displayed. His hollow eyes remained transfixed on the fire, and he projected the image of a completely broken man. Without making eye contact, he raised the small glass high above his head.

"Captain Kara Burns. The smartest officer I ever fucking knew, but never appreciated." He swallowed the whiskey but didn't smash the glass. He continued looking into the empty vessel, then slowly placed it in his pocket before sulking backwards into the darkness. The fire crackled softly, and a dark silence slipped amongst the group until they began to individually peel off from the gathering towards a final sleep amongst the darkened giant carcasses of dead airplanes.

* * *

Brian wandered amongst the giant aircraft, lost in his own thoughts, when he caught sight of Allen Middleton sitting alone, poking the remnants of the fire around the pit that the few maintenance professionals had claimed. The guilt rose immediately, just as it did every time he caught sight of the man whom he had failed in an unforgiveable way.

 _Tell him,_ the voice urged inside his head. _Get it out in the open. He needs to—DESERVES to—know what happened that night._

 _And you need to take responsibility for losing his world._

Brian sat down next to the man. In better times, both of their names had been inscribed beneath the canopy of a A-10 that they had nicknamed "Wicked Intentions." A fiery and scantily clad red-head holding a gun and a cartoonish grenade had adorned the ladder door, the look in her eyes detailing the devilish ideas swirling in her perceived thoughts. _Always had a thing for the gingers,_ Allen had mused when the two of them had agreed on the artwork. _Shoulda kept lookin' 'til I found me one instead of the bitch I hitched…_ he would joke. _'Cept that woulda meant I wouldna met my sweet Aubrey Lynn…_

"How're you holdin' up, brother?" Brian broke the ice hanging heavily in the warm air.

"Not good, boss," Allen whispered. "I'm holdin' on by a shoestring."

Brian nodded and placed his hand on Allen's shoulder.

"Did you ever hear anything about your wife before it all went down?" Allen asked softly.

"No," Brian mumbled. "The last time I saw her was at the hospital when they cleared everyone out." His voice cracked in his own painful recollections. "They wouldn't let us stay—Leigh wouldn't have let me stay anyways… she knew what was coming. I didn't want to believe it. She didn't want the kids to see her go—made me promise to not tell them. I'm still not sure if I agree with that… meant I couldn't be there for her at the end."

"The end…" Allen mumbled.

"She had to go alone…" Brian whispered absent-mindedly.

"Alone…" Allen repeated softly, and Brian felt the guilt cover him in a nearly debilitating remorse. _What the hell where you thinking?_

"You look like something else is on your mind, boss," Allen muttered.

Brian shrugged and dropped his eyes. _Tell him!_ "Lot on everyone's mind right now," he offered.

Allen nodded sadly. "You think it'll be better up on the mountain?"

"Yes and no," Brian returned. "Yes, I think it'll be safer—we won't have to defend against the dead like we do down here." His eyes turned to survey the night sky that still glowed in the distance. "No because we'll be abandoning everything we've lost—it's like we're admitting defeat and leaving something that was _ours."_ He looked at his crew chief and saw the tear fall into the dust, and he reached for the words before any uncertainty could stop him. "Allen, I need to say something—"

"Don't," the other man whispered. "Don't apologize for living. Don't apologize for the fact that your kids made it—I don't blame you, and I don't resent anyone who lived through this shit. I don't. It makes Aubrey's absence harder—sure…" The sobs came openly now and fractured his spoken thoughts. "There's gonna be a hole in my life from here on out—every day that I'm upright and above the ground and thinkin' for myself—the pain will be there.

"But it lets me know that I'm still alive." He raised his eyes. "Your boy was good to Aubrey, and Amelia was her best friend in the world—even if your girl was a coupla' years older than she was. I know things woulda been diff'rent if you'da been able to make it so."

His words stabbed Brian through the heart with a profound grief-ridden guilt, and he struggled to continue to hold himself upright. Any momentary courage that he had grasped a few moments earlier faded beneath a suddenly-heaving chest. He pushed down on his knees and tried to convince his legs to rise beneath him. Allen grabbed his forearm.

"Please don't go boss," he whimpered. "Would you mind settin' with me for a bit? At least until the fire goes out?" Brian sank back onto the split log and slid the flask from the cargo pocket of his newly-issued operational combat uniform. He pressed the thin plastic container into Allen's palm.

"Pretty sure General Order Number One is no longer in effect," Brian began. "It's not a cure, but—"

"Can always count on a pilot to have some medicine," Allen whispered, a hint of thankfulness edging into his words.

"I would say the same thing about you Crew Chiefs."

* * *

Gordon strode purposefully down the long row of vehicles again, inspecting each as best he could in the darkness. _First light in an hour,_ he thought. _Need to be moving up to the corner of the 'yard before then._ The column waited in perfect military order; _Thirty four vehicles,_ he observed. Humvees, a handful of military deuce-and-a-half heavy-duty trucks, one massive MRAP that they had discovered in the reclamation area—it took the maintenance boys three days to get that thing running—half-ton pickups, off-road border patrol paddy-wagons… some of the trucks piled high with palletized food and water, and four of the newer MAT-Vs just back from Afghanistan. A few of the sheriffs and border patrol agents busied themselves with the final preparations on their vehicles, and Gordon tried again to suppress the tinge of anxiety pecking at the back of his thoughts.

 _A daylight run through unfamiliar territory,_ he thought worriedly. _No idea what's waiting on the other side of the fence… all indicators of a disaster… maybe. Even with a convoy this big, we're gonna be stacked to the gills with pax—people are gonna be ridin' on top of some of those pallets to get up the mountain…_ As the worrisome thoughts continued to swill, Brian Rawlins slid out of the darkness, flanked by his teenage son.

"Pabst," Gordon began. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"A couple hours," Brian replied. "Maybe three. You?"

"Mmm, 'bout the same maybe," he lied.

"I've got you a new spotter," Brian offered, his hand on the boy's shoulder. "He's good with the M4 out to about fifty yards right now—he'll be out-shooting me with a little practice."

"Uniform looks good on you," Gordon said, pointing to Trevor.

"Thank you sir," the teenager replied modestly, slightly embarrassed.

"How're we lookin'?" Brian asked.

"Think we're about ready," Gordon replied. "Give a wake-up call for the dependents here in about ten minutes and get them loaded up. I want to be in the wash at dawn."

Brian nodded at the plan, which called for the massive convoy to exit the Boneyard at its northeast corner and follow Irvington Road to the east until it hit the Pantano Wash at Houghton Road. From there the group would split. The first, and primary, would stop at a horse-training facility. _Good people there,_ the young airman from Security Forces had said. _Having access to horses might be a good thing,_ she had offered. Gordon had agreed, but the risk involved with going into a completely unknown location bordered on unacceptable. _But, I'm not sure anything's '_ acceptable' _anymore._

 _Just so long as we can keep everyone else alive._

After the split, a small second unit consisting of one Humvee and a few trucks would lead a supply and medical raid up Houghton Road to a pharmacy and Walmart. The first group would use the wide trails that cut through the wash to make their way north, staying away as many population centers and neighborhoods likely teeming with the undead. They would meet at the base of the Catalina Highway and make their way up the mountain.

 _So long as everything went according to plan_.

Brian and Trevor moved off to begin coordinating the final personnel assembly, and Gordon made his way a final time to the convoy's head. At the lead Humvee, Ruben Alvarado leaned weakly over the hood.

"Everything look good?" The older officer breathed.

 _"_ All secure and ready to roll," Gordon replied. "I don't know that I've ever seen pallets stacked that high—your guys really did a great job of getting this amount of provisions."

"Reminds me of the some of the resupply convoys we had to move through the Kunar," Ruben whispered. "Finding those water buffaloes yesterday really helped," he pointed to the dual-wheeled trailer-tanks attached to many of the heavy vehicles. "I think you're gonna have everything you need up there with this loadout."

"I agree—wait," Gordon stopped short. "You mean, _we_ , right?"

Ruben looked up sadly, and pulled back the ragged sleeve of his shirt. A dirty bandage encircled his arm, dried brown blood and green pus leaking through the gauze. Gordon's eyes widened at the sight, and his jaw dropped.

"When—" he stammered.

"Last time I went to the armory—looks like we missed one and he got his teeth into me when I was collecting the last of the nine-millimeter rounds." He leaned against the vehicle. "If you wouldn't mind just leaving me a few bottles of water and maybe a couple-few MREs, and I think I'll just hold down the fort here—admire our work in building this camp."

Gordon nodded sadly and struggled to maintain his composure while every fabric of his soul screamed out in frustrated agony. _Another one! We lost another one!_ A sudden realization dropped through his chest; if Lieutenant Colonel Alvarado remained behind, _then he was now the senior officer in the group._

He, Gordon Meade, was now in command _._

 _Command._ Different than simple leadership or directing operations. Command carried the weight of every decision, and while he felt the loss of every man and woman since the world had erupted in chaos a week ago, now he would be _directly_ responsible for their lives. That icy anticipation twisted around his spine, and he felt a tickle of nausea. His mind drifted back to a sign hung in his former commander's office that read, _Lead, Follow, or Get Out of the Way._ The classic cliché carried weight, and Gordon's thoughts returned to the lessons of his mentors. _Well, what's it gonna be?_ they seemed to ask in his mind. _I sure as hell am not abandoning the mission,_ he thought. _And I'm already out front on most of this, so switching to a followership role is out of the question._

 _So, lead._

"Is there anything else we can do for you before we go, sir?" Gordon asked.

 _"_ No," Ruben laughed weakly. "Get them up there safely."

Brian jogged to the front of the column and addressed Ruben. "Sir, everyone's loadin' up—final headcount in about ten minutes. Defenders are making one final sweep of the area to make sure we're not leaving anything, or anyone, behind."

Ruben smiled and nodded towards Gordon. "You report to him now," he sighed. Brian looked to Gordon, confused, until he followed the other officer's gaze back towards the filthy bandage that Ruben now displayed for him. Before Brian could open his mouth in disbelieving protest, Ruben held up his hand. "It's alright. I've already made my peace with it—I'm staying here, and you two aren't wasting any more time arguing over this or trying to convince me to go with you—you both know that's a recipe for disaster in potentially introducing the condition up there. _If it's not already there."_

Gordon crossed his arms and leaned back against the boxy vehicle, exhaling sharply.

"What's on your mind, Major?" Ruben asked dryly.

"Nothin' sir. Everything," he began. "This whole goddamned thing… just feels like," he trailed off and dropped his eyes. "…it feels like failure. One fucking failure after another."

"But it's not," Ruben replied. "You're driving the fight."

"Sure doesn't feel that way," Gordon retorted.

"Never does to a leader." Ruben coughed, spat, and wiped the growing perspiration from his forehead. "We get so caught up in managing and offsetting the things that go wrong that we miss what's going right—only after we've relinquished command, or maybe just physically stepped back from the execution do we truly see what we've accomplished."

"I know," Gordon replied. "Just can't shake the feeling that we're moving towards the next tragedy."

"Maybe," Ruben coughed. "Maybe not. You're probably right that things are going to get worse long before they get better." He drew himself up slowly and stepped right in front of the pararescue officer's chest. "The question is, are you willing to fight for just a chance? Are you willing to risk everything to chase after that solitary glimmer of hope?"

Gordon glared at him, the sudden flash of his reasoning conducted on the precipice of suicide returning to his conscious thoughts. Ruben continued, "That's _your_ burden of command now, my friend." He laughed weakly. "You were always in charge out here—I was just a figurehead." He looked at his watch. "Get moving—you don't want to miss your timeline."

* * *

The first time they had passed through a gate into the unforgiving new reality, Brian had thought that nothing could be more terrifying than that movement through a darkness cloaking the approaching terrors. But, moving through the newly established gate at the northeastern corner of the Boneyard with the world around them lightening with the rising sun proved to be even more unsettling.

 _Now they could clearly see the nightmares, and the ghouls could see him as well._

The convoy had rolled out in a cloud of dust as diesel engines growled under the strain of the palletized provisions and towed tanks of water. Brian had adjusted the mirror of his Humvee to watch the solitary image of Ruben Alvarado leaning into a ten-foot pole capped by an American Flag fade into the swirling dust as they rolled away.

Even over the humming of the large motor, Brian's senses slid into extreme unease with the silence around them. _Nothing was moving._ Familiar cityscapes, neighborhoods, roadways—all devoid of the normal motion and bustle that everyday life had come to present. _All that had gone by now,_ he thought. _This is the new reality._ He swallowed hard to suppress the burbling fear, and struggled to again _find a mission._ A smoky haziness hung low in the air, blending scent and vision with a sharpness that stung the nose and eyes. A dizzying sense of deja-vu flooded his senses; the atmosphere surrounding the convoy reminiscent of his deployments to foreign countries—the landscape, the smells, the sounds—the alien nature of an unfamiliar nation—except that those same emotions and reactions bled into his conscious as he traversed a road that he had driven many times before… in a city that he had lived in for years… in a nation he had spent his entire life living in… the now unrecognizable familiarity blanketing the apparently lifeless scenery drifting past his portal-window left him off-balance and slightly dazed.

After a couple of miles of rolling through the deserted streets, Brian began to wonder if the clearing orders of the last few weeks might have been more effective than he had thought. The housing developments on the north side of the road seemed completely empty. He turned his attention to the GPS receiver mounted to the dashboard.

"Crazy," he offered out loud. "Cell phones and internet are gone, but the GPS is still kicking."

"Satellites got their own power source," Richard replied from the driver's seat. "Should last for a long-ass time."

And then he saw them.

From a distance, they looked like _well, people,_ he thought. Three, upright forms walking alongside the street— _something you just expect to see any day, in any city…_ As the lead vehicle approached, Brian saw that they appeared to be young adults and a child. They shuffled almost drunkenly in the same direction until the noise of the approaching convoy stimulated their attentive reflexes. _Maybe they're alive,_ he thought. _Alive, injured, in-need of help…_

The dead, empty eyes shattered his hope. The blackish, bloated skin around receding lips displayed white teeth gnashing at the air as the ghouls picked up on the movement. Brian reached for the radio handset and thumbed the transmit switch.

"Convoy, slow—three—" he stumbled. _Three whats? What the hell are we calling them? Things? Zombies? Corpses? "…Zekes_ , twelve o'clock, north side of the road," he sputtered.

"What the fuck are 'Zekes?'" Gordon's voice rang out across their headsets.

"Japanese bombers, World War Two," Taffy's voice called in immediate reply.

"Zombies—they're zombies!" Brian shot back, slightly flushed and embarrassed in the moment.

"Maybe we oughta be callin' 'em Zach," an unidentified voice interrupted. "I like Zach."

"I had a brother named Zach," another voice opened. "No way are we calling those _things Zach."_

"Enough—keep the airwaves clear!" Gordon's voice erupted. "Copy, three Zekes, north side of the road. Slow to idle. Spotters," he commanded. "…use your clearing poles—I don't want to attract attention this early with gunshots. Acknowledge!"

The vehicles responded in turn, and the spotters in their turrets reached for the ten-foot aluminum poles. As each vehicle approached the snarling creatures, the spotters planted a flat end of the pole in their chests and pushed them backwards, where they stumbled over their rotten feet before attempting to approach the following vehicle. Trevor gripped his pole tightly and connected with the male zombie's head instead of the chest as the Humvee hit a small pothole. The force of the hit to the man's temple spun the thing, and Trevor noticed that the corpse began twitching erratically as it spun to the ground. He stared in awe at the convulsing body as the large vehicle rolled past. Below him, in the backseat of the truck, Doc Boone stared out of the flimsy window and began scribbling notes on a small pad in his lap.

The last vehicle in the group rolled past the three corpses. "Roadrunner Three-Four, clear of the Zachs."

"Zekes-we're calling them Zekes now."

"Roger that, whatever. We're clear of those three nasty sonofabitches. By the way, who got that dude flopping like a fish?"

The convoy sped up and approached the "T" intersection marking their point of departure. Richard pulled the Humvee off to the left, followed quickly by two of the rumbling deuce-and-a-halfs. As Gordon's MAT-V slid to a halt beside him, the spotter in the turret above him called "Clear! All directions for one hundred meters, no bogeys!" Brian threw the door open and ambled to the larger vehicle where Gordon had cracked open the door and released the five-point harness to slide down and into view.

"You sure about this?" he asked as Brian leaned in to the open door.

"No, but I guess we're gonna call that standard from here on out," Brian answered.

"Quiet out here," Gordon observed.

"Too quiet."

"I agree."

Brian looked up to the turret above Gordon and caught Trevor's wide eyes staring back at him from beneath the tactical helmet strapped to his head. The boy seemed five years older than Brian had last understood him to be. "Watch your sister," he called up.

"No risks," Gordon ordered curtly. "I need you alive, not chasing heroics. Hit that Walmart—grab what you can there and in the CVS based on what Doc Boone said he needs—"

"I've got the shopping list," Brian grinned.

"Don't hang it out, brother—I mean that," Gordon repeated. "One or two here and there, okay—but if it looks questionable, abort the mission and meet us at the rendezvous point at the base of the mountain."

"Got it, boss—we'll be smart," Brian replied.

"What do you think about this idea of going after these horses?"

"I think it's a good one," Brian offered. "Horses might be a great advantage—quiet, highly mobile—"

"Heavy on the food and water requirements…" Gordon breathed. "But if there's a chance of pulling some survivors out, hell—it's on the way…"

"You don't sound convinced," Brian observed.

"Convinced—nice choice of words," Gordon laughed uncomfortably. "I don't think that's possible anymore. Maybe I'm wrong." He looked down at the skinny pilot. "Be safe out there, brother."

"You got it boss- same goes for you. Keep my kids safe—we'll see you at the marker in a few hours."

"We ain't waitin' for you—don't be late," Gordon warned.

* * *

The stifling uneasiness continued as the smaller convoy moved north along Houghton Road. Occasional, small groups of the undead appeared, but the lack of any appreciable movement increased the sense of isolated dread growing amongst the small party.

"Line of sight is better than I expected," Brian observed.

"How do you mean?" Richard asked, moving his head constantly to gain a better view through the relatively small panes of the tactical vehicle.

"The rolling hills—buildings, even the trees," Brian explained. "There's less chance to see us—the terrain keeps us masked more than I thought it might."

"Can be bad too," Richard considered. "Can't see threats until they're right on top of you." The vehicles moved relatively slowly, keeping the noise from the growling diesels lower until the familiar blue and yellow signs appeared ahead and to their right.

"Don't commit to the parking lot until we get a clear view on the other side of these trees," Brian instructed. The large trucks rolled past the last street opening into a tract of homes on their left.

"Four bogeys, left nine-o'clock, three-hundred yards, look to be moving away from us, not sure if they saw us," Jose's voice rang out across their headsets.

 _The dead are here too,_ Brian thought, and tried to push aside the anxiety attached to the realization. The Humvee reached the right turn into the large parking lot, and he scanned the scene nervously. A handful of cars still dotted the parking lot, but no motion drew their attention. Brian pulled a pair of binoculars to his eyes and looked towards the store's entrance.

"Looks like it's boarded up pretty good—building's secure from this side," he noted.

"That good or bad?" Joseph asked from the rear seat.

"Both, and neither," Brian returned.

"Great answer," Joseph muttered.

Brian dropped the lenses and analyzed the approach to the building. Narrow alleyways flanked by small walls lined the compound. "I'd bet we can get in through the back—front looks like it was walled up pretty good with those pallets—might take us awhile to get through it."

"What are the odds that the back is boarded up too?" Brady asked.

"Fifty-fifty, right?" Joseph groused.

"Alright, let's avoid the same mistake we made on the second night and try not to get sandwiched in a bad spot. If we're goin' around the back, let's send a runner down the alley on the backside of that small wall and see what's around the corner. If it's clear, we'll bring the trucks down and see if we can't breach around the back. Stockrooms are gonna be back there anyways—best chance for the most supplies."

"I'm on it," Richard spat quickly, reaching into the open space between the seats for his new assault rifle. "Someone else gotta drive though," he grinned as he slid from behind the wheel. Brian jumped from his passenger seat and motioned for the big trucks behind them to hold their position. Richard deftly leapt over the wall and ran forward, rifle sights poking over the low structure. He reached the end of the compound, and Brian watched as the black barrel swung back and forth several times. His heart pounded as he awaited the signal.

Richard stood and waved them forward as he swung his legs over the barricade and moved out of sight on the opposite corner of the large supercenter. The large vehicles released their brakes and rolled forward in idle power, their engines humming deeply.

Trash lined the edges of the accessway, and Brian suddenly worried that the store might have already been ransacked. Ahead of the lumbering tactical vehicles, Richard jogged and began examining the several doors and shipping access portals, shaking his head as he found each one to be locked. He stopped at the end of the building and carefully inspected the rear edges of an eighteen-wheeler that appeared to have been backed forcefully into the access portal, the thin aluminum around the corners of the trailer crumpled and compressed. Brian dismounted his vehicle and approached his friend.

"Everything's locked up back here too," Richard reported. "But this one here—this truck was pushed back into the shipping portal—I bet to seal an access point that someone couldn't close off otherwise."

"You think we can get in here if we can move the truck?" Brian asked.

"That's exactly what I think."

"What are the odds of the keys being in the cab?" Brian wondered.

"Fifty-fifty, right?" Richard grinned.

"I got better odds for you," Brian returned. "Put that thing in neutral and hitch the front to our tow-chains with the one of the deuce-and-a-halfs. We'll pull it forward just enough to get inside. If we've hit a jackpot, we'll move it all the way forward and load up the trucks."

"I like those odds better than mine," Richard said thoughtfully. Within a few minutes, they had the tractor-trailer rig chained to their own truck, and Richard managed to disengage the brakes on the larger vehicle.

"Pull it slowly," Brian ordered quietly. "Don't rev the engine more than you need to—I want to draw as little attention to this party as we can!" The large diesel engine growled angrily, and the pop of metal straining against metal echoed across the structures, far louder than the rumbling of the motor. Brian winced at the sudden report, but smiled when he saw the gap form behind the trailer, revealing an opening into the building.

"Fifty-fifty, bet on black every time," he grinned.

"Remind me to never go to Vegas with you," Richard mumbled. Brian ran forward to the deuce-and-a-half's cab, where Rob Itzak fumbled to apply the vehicle's parking brake.

"Nice job, brother," Brian breathed. "I'm taking the four from my vehicle inside—stay with the trucks—any sign of trouble, get the trucks out of here and up to the mountain—we'll take care of ourselves. Post sentries on each corner of the building to make sure we don't get blocked in on either side."

"Great plan," Rob complained. "So, I'll just stay out here, in the open, and make sure that, like, you're okay in there—is that it?"

"Exactly," Brian smiled. He turned and ran towards the small group assembling at the shipping dock. Richard peered into the darkness, swinging the flashlight on the side of his M4 into the corners of the bay.

"Looks clear," he whispered.

"Alright, here's the plan," Brian began. "We'll split into two groups of two once we get past the outer bay and assess anything that's in storage. If anyone—"

"—or any _thing,"_ Joseph interrupted.

"… or any thing is in there, they surely heard us breach this entrance, so listen before you move and try not to give away your location."

"Great advice, dad," Richard growled. "You sure 'bout splittin' up?"

"Stick to the plan," Brian shot back, exasperation beginning to melt into the anxiety ticking at the pits of his stomach.

"Exactly, 'time's up, let's do this,' right?" Brady laughed quietly.

"After you, sweetheart," Brian motioned towards the opening between the trailer and the shipping dock.

"Waitin' on you beautiful," Brady joked.

What limited light had spilled into the loading dock entrance faded into near-complete darkness as they moved into the first storeroom. "Shoulda brought the NVGs," Richard muttered.

"That's a thought that would have been VERY useful four hours ago," Brian replied sarcastically. The beams from the flashlights attached to the front of their assault rifles crisscrossed the room methodically, drawing brilliant fingers of light through the dusty air. A wave of relief washed through Brian completely as his beam illuminated rows of stacked canned goods, all wrapped in protective shipping shrink-wrap. "I think we're gonna be alright," he whispered.

"Keep going into the store?" Richard asked in hushed tones.

"Yes, inventory if nothing else—know what our options are. And get what we can from the sporting goods and outdoor living sections." They stopped at the edges to the double doors opening the enormous store, and moved the light beams back and forth.

"You smell that?" Brady asked.

"Smells like," Joseph pondered, trying to place the scent.

"It don't smell like death," Richard observed.

"That's food—someone's been here—someone's been cooking in here."

"Hang on a second," Brady began. He grabbed a loose can of green beans, moved into the doorway, and hurled the metal cylinder down the nearest aisle. The can clattered noisily, bouncing off of the aluminum shelving and crashing through a display of what appeared to be shoes in the darkness. Brian turned to him with an angry scowl that clearly asked 'what the fuck are you doing?' Brady pressed his index finger to his lips and pointed to his ears.

"If Zeke's here, that'll let us know," he whispered.

Silence.

"Well, Zeke ain't here… I hope the chef left as well," Brian muttered as he slid into the doorway and reactivated his light. "Back here in ten minutes with a report." The two groups moved into the store, crisscrossing beams of light marking their progress. He reached the end of the aisle  
and peeked carefully down the larger thoroughfare. Behind him, he felt Joseph tuck up closely as the other man watched their rear. "Can you see Country's light?" Brian whispered, continuing to look into the wide path leading towards their objective.

"Yes," Joseph whispered. "Looks like they're into the food section, or close to it and still moving."

"Alright, still quiet ahead—let's fan out line abreast—one aisle at a time until we can make it to the gun counter."

"Right on you, brother," Joseph whispered.

Brian grunted softly as he rose to his feet. He was about to mumble, 'let's go,' when the distinctive click of a pistol hammer cracked next to his ear, and he felt the cold steel of a barrel jammed into his temple.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," a deep, gravelly voice hissed from above. "I think you boys made a wrong turn comin' in here. Who are you?"

"Nobody in particular," Brian answered in a slightly-louder-than conversational voice. Joseph froze the barrel of his weapon away from the newcomer, and noticed that the other pair of lights across the store had gone out. "Who are you?"

"I'm asking the questions here, son," the voice jeered, rising in volume as well. A small flashlight popped on above Brian and traced its beam around his clothing and weapons. "Why don't you slide that nice piece of weaponry over this way," he commanded, pressing the pistol harder into Brian's forehead.

"That won't be necessary," Richard's voice boomed as his flashlight burst forth an intense beam of light directly in the man's eyes. "Turns out, we never travel alone."

The man laughed softly. "Neither do we." The distinct sound of a bolt ramming a round into a chamber echoed from the rafters above them. "By the way, you look real nice in red." A steady, intense beam of laser light bounced softly on Richard's chest. "Looks like we got the jump on you, boys. This is our house."

Brian noticed at least two other dark forms lurking in the shadows. Above him, he could see that Richard and Brady's weapons remained trained on the man standing over him. The origin of the laser sight shone steadily from the roofing structure above.

"Now, you boys lower your weapons—this is a no-shit shootin' match, not some air-soft range,"

Brian's mind raced and his heart pounded in his chest. He tightened his grip on his assault rifle and tensed the muscles in his legs. _Can I get the barrel up to that sniper before he can get a round off? Use the darkness! Drop to the floor and go for the ankles… catch them off-guard._ Gordon's commands returned to his thoughts and added to his fractured thoughts. _I need you alive—no heroics._

The man's light had stopped on Brian's shoulder. "Where'd you get that patch, boy? You assholes been raidin' the surplus store to play Army?"

"We ain't raided shit," Brian hissed. "That's my fucking patch, and this is my fucking uniform." _Buy time… do not surrender the weapons._

"Oh really?" the man snorted. "What's your MOS?"

"We don't have MOSs in the Air Force," Brian spat. "We're pilots."

 _Wait, did he just say MOS?_ A career of studying the branch that they supported as A-10 pilots keyed him to the jargon that slid from the man's mouth, and Brian recognized an opportunity. MOS, or military occupational specialty, was the term by which the United States Army classified its soldiers into jobs.

"You Army?" Brian asked.

"Was—eighteen bravo, whiskey three," the man replied. _Is that a softening in his tone?_

"Special Forces Weapons Sergeant, Sniper," Richard muttered quietly.

"How the fuck do you know that?" the man shot back, slightly puzzled or bemused—Brian couldn't tell which.

"My old man had the same MOS," Richard answered.

"Okay," Brian began as he loosened the grip on his weapon slightly. "How about a moment of professional courtesy? Let's talk this out, and we'll be on our way—we don't need what you've got."

"How many more troops you got outside?"

"Three—two drivers and a spotter, all armed with an M4 and M9 apiece," Brian replied, hoping to both instill a moment's worth of trust and appreciation in this adversary.

"Professional courtesy, huh?"

"Let's talk for a minute, and then we'll be on our way," Brian repeated.

"You ain't wearing nametags or rank—how do I know you ain't just some punks who know a little something about daddy's time in the army?"

"How'd you recognize this patch?" Brian retorted. His squadron patch, a cartoonish termite based on a comic strip from the nineteen thirties, was one of the few remaining remnants that he had managed to hold onto, and he had affixed the round shield to the arm of the camouflage combat uniforms that the group had acquired during a raid of the base's war reserve uniforms.

"My boy's a JTAC—some flyboy saved his ass in Afghanistan a few years back—gave him a patch that looked just like that when they got together to go over the mission." His tone softened dramatically. "You boys hog drivers?"

Gambling on the sudden shift, Brian turned the barrel of his weapon straight down, and stood slowly. "We are," he whispered.

"Vanessa," the man's voice boomed. "We're good down here, you can come on down."

 _Vanessa?_ Brian thought. _That's a woman up there?_

"Boys, I'm gonna back off here and turn on a few lights—I'm willin' to trust you for a minute—professional courtesy. But you fuck with me," he warned. "I promise you I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve for just such an occasion."

Brian exhaled forcefully and bit down on his tongue to suppress the sudden urge to vomit. Above him, Richard and Brady lowered their weapons to the low ready position and slid their index fingers back to the trigger guards. _Need you alive,_ the voice instructed again. _Good job._

"What are you boys doin' up here?" the man asked as he switched on a pair of camping lanterns.

"Foraging for supplies," Brian returned.

"What happened to the base?"

"Overrun," Joseph replied softly.

"Government tell you boys to bomb the city?" a woman's voice rang out from the edge of the dimly lit circle provided by the lanterns. A younger woman, her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail removed the rappelling rig from around her hips and slung a large hunting rifle over her shoulder.

"Yeah, something like that," Richard answered. "Glad you didn't have to shoot me!" he shot his crooked grin her way. She stared back with silent, angry eyes.

"An order came down to eradicate the disease with fire," Brian explained. "The areas of the city that were targeted had been evacuated but overrun with the infected."

"Sounds like a typical government answer," the man whistled. "By the way, name's Jimmy—this is my lil' girl, Vanessa—don't recommend you test her—she's learned a lot from her old man. Back in the shadows, that's my lady—Milley, and that tall dumbass with the pop-gun is my brother Mikey."

"How'd you all end up in here?" Brian asked.

"Because of him," Jimmy replied, pointing at his brother. "He works here. Or did. Ran the gun counter. When things started slidin' south, we came up here to check on him. Got caught up in the panic—had a few more here early on, but they decided to make it on their own—didn't like being holed up, no matter how much we had here."

"I understand the feeling," Brian mumbled.

"Anyways, we made this our own little Alamo—had a few looters and random assholes try to make their way in a few times—most everyone turned and ran when confronted with overlapping fields of fire from places they couldn't identify," he smiled. In the dim light, Brian could finally discern the man's features. He was older, maybe in his late sixties, with a wrinkled, leathery face framed by long hair pulled back into a thin ponytail behind his head. A slim leather jacket covered his upper torso, and a strong pair of motorcycle boots capped his feet. He slid his pistol—a .357 magnum—into the shoulder holster beneath the jacket, and Brian caught sight of another pistol tucked into the man's belt. _Tricks up his sleeve,_ he thought. "Seemed like a decent enough place to ride it out," he observed.

"That your plan?" Brian asked. "Just ride it out?"

"Call that stage one," Jimmy laughed. "Figured the cavalry would come eventually." He flashed a cockeyed grin. "Never figured it'd be the goddamned Chair Force ridin' into the rescue."

"Always bailin' out you grunts," Brian allowed himself a slight smile.

"What about you—what's your plan? You said the base was overrun, so I'm guessin' you ain't goin' back there," Jimmy stated.

"No sir, we're on our way up to Mount Lemmon. We've got a group of over two-hundred survivors—we split off to do a little recon and foraging—gotta hit the CVS across the parking lot too—we've got a flight surgeon with us, and he gave us a list of supplies he needs to keep folks healthy." He looked directly at the older man. "You're welcome to come with us."

Jimmy smiled and sank into a small canvas folding chair. "And leave all this behind?" His smile faded slightly. "You offerin' outta the goodness of your heart or do you just want what we've got in here?"

"No selfishness intended—straight up, we could use the supplies, but they're yours to refuse. If you come with us, anything that comes out of this store belongs to you—guns, food, you name it—you decide how it gets used."

"That's a pretty bold offer to someone you just met," Jimmy observed coolly.

"Call it professional courtesy," Brian replied.

"You boys almost got the jump on us," Jimmy chortled. "We normally keep watch from the roof—don't want anyone sneakin' up on us. Things had gotten so quiet I pulled Vanessa there inside for some chow—good thing she kept the rig handy to get up into the rafters quickly. We had this place sealed up pretty good—after we boarded the front doors and got the back ones locked, the looters and undesirables pretty much stopped comin' 'round. We'd hear some shuffling or probing occasionally, but figgered we had a nice, secure setup." He narrowed his eyes at Brian. "Whaddaya got out there, deuce-and-a-halfs?" Brian nodded and Jimmy laughed again. "Shit, figures. Mikey thought sealing up the single shipping dock was the greatest thing he'd ever come up with—leave it to the Chair Force to find a way through that defense—no one else did."

"What do you say—you want to come with us?"

Jimmy looked around slowly until his eyes settled on the tired, haggard face of his wife. She nodded softly. "Well, hell. If Mrs. Milley wants out, I guess we're going."

* * *

It took a few hours to load as much of the food and supplies as they could fit into the large trucks. Brian suggested loading the eighteen-wheeler, but Jimmy pointed out that they were better off resealing the store with the rig so that they could return for the stacks of non-perishable goods still lining the shelves and storage areas. As Rob and Jose began securing the final cases of ammunition and canned foods, Jimmy, Mikey, and Vanessa wheeled a trio of brilliant, chromed motorcycles into the sunlight.

"Hog riders and hog drivers," Brian observed with a grin. "You don't think those things will make too much noise and draw attention to us?"

Jimmy looked up incredulously and strode over to pound the large engine cover of the Humvee. "I think we'll be alright," he replied condescendingly. Brian shook his head sheepishly and nodded in agreement. Behind him, Richard gawked at the young woman pushing her motorcycle forward. He nudged Brian in the ribs and whispered, "You have no idea how hot I think that is."

"My money's on her kickin' your ass within twenty-four hours," Brian laughed.

"I'd take that beating!" Richard grinned. He caught her eye and widened his grin. The young woman huffed quietly and returned an icy stare. Richard leaned in closer to Brian. "Holy shit, she fuckin' hates me!"

"Normally takes you three or four dates to get to the level of disdain from a woman," Brian joked.

"It's the new way, brother," Richard smirked. "Everything is accelerated!"

Brian grinned and turned to the others. "Sloth, Brady—we're gonna hit the CVS and get Doc's stuff—Cain, how long until we're ready to roll?"

The man atop the large truck grunted as he pushed another case of food into the bed. "Probably less than thirty minutes—that enough time?"

"Perfect," Brian calculated. He noticed Richard ambling towards Vanessa, and he cursed light-heartedly under his breath. "Here we go…"

"We're headed over to the pharmacy—want to go with us?" Richard grinned lopsidedly. The young woman clicked the chinstrap on her helmet and glared from behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

"Do I know you?" she spat.

Beside him, Jimmy offered a baggie full of dark-brown jerky over to Brian. "I'd warn you about her, but I figure y'all will see that my girl is probably tougher than her old man. Brian smiled and reached into the bag.

"Fresh jerky, you make this?" he pulled on the tough, dry meat.

"Mrs. Milley's doin'" Jimmy smiled. "As soon as the power grid went out, she took all the meat she could from the place and started dryin' it."

Brian nodded appreciatively. "Smart lady," he observed.

Jimmy shrugged. "That's debatable—she married me!" He laughed. "Mikey and me'll help get these rigs ready—we'll meet you around the north side of the pharmacy in no more than thirty minutes."

From above them, Rob called out. "Hey, when do I get to go on one of your precious 'raids?'" He drug the final word out in a sarcastic whine directed straight at Richard.

"When you learn to shoot," Richard cracked.

"Learn to shoot… you learn to shoot!" Rob mocked.

Brian laughed to himself; the taunts let him know that morale remained at acceptable levels. He rechecked the status of his weapons and began moving around the building towards their next objective.

The front door to the pharmacy stood in stark contrast to the supercenter behind it. The glass lay cracked and shattered, with shards strewn across the front entryway. Brian peeked around the corner of the large entrance from one side while Joseph peered in from the opposite side. Leaning in slightly, he caught the revolting scent and drew back instinctively.

"That's the scent of death, boys," he whispered.

"Want me to try the same thing I did back at Wally-World?" Brady asked.

"Great plan—weapons ready!" he hissed. Brady stumbled backwards until he found a fist-sized rock in the bed surrounding the building. He leapt into the opening of the shattered doors and flung the stone forcefully towards the rear of the store. It bounced off the rear wall with a loud crack, careening off the large plastic letters affixed to the structure, which fell to the ground with a raucous clatter. The gurgling moans rose immediately, and a half dozen corpses rose from between the aisles and began stumbling towards the racket that had garnered their attention. The four airmen froze in the doorway, the only movement coming from eyes lining up the iron sights on the rotted heads shuffling to the back of the store.

"Sort your side, high-men take two each… on my mark, three… two… one… drop 'em!" Brian commanded in hushed tones. The four rifles barked simultaneously, then Brian and Joseph each shifted to the dark gray mottled flesh capped by dull white eyes and pulled their triggers a second time. Six decayed corpses collapsed upon themselves, hitting the ground with a sickening wet thud.

"Hold—wait for movement!" Brian hissed. "Sloth, you and I—straight down the center-clear out on each aisle as we go. Country, Dude- watch our six—make sure nothing assholes us from the street after all that racket!"

"Jesus it stinks in here," Joseph gagged.

"We haven't been in a hot confined space with Zeke before," Brian muttered. "It's almost as bad as the squadron locker room!"

"I was gonna say that it's just slightly more refreshing than a shitter in Iraq," Joseph smiled.

"Pharmacy's in the back—your side," Brian directed as he swung his rifle down another aisle.

"Contact," Joseph whispered, his own weapon clearing his side of the store. "Looks like it's locked up pretty tight—rolled metal shutters are down."

"Stay disciplined—don't give up your scan as we get close," Brian directed. As they slowly drew towards the closed-off pharmacy, a steady series of crashes sounded from the opposite side of the metal shutters.

"Ah, shit—there's something in there," Joseph mumbled.

"Movements are pretty rapid—that doesn't sound like Zeke," Brian observed.

"Unless there's a bunch of them back there."

"A bunch," Brian repeated. "How many you suppose might make up _a bunch?_ "

Before his friend could answer, a fresh round of crashes and clattering emanated from behind the sealed room, this time accompanied by whimpers and words rattled so quickly that neither man understood them.

"Zeke doesn't talk, does he?" Brian breathed. Joseph shook his head quickly, and both men understood: _survivor._ He slung his rifle and reached for the metal shutters, pushing up on them unsuccessfully. "Shit," he wheezed. "They're designed to keep people out—try that door!" He motioned to a heavy steel door marked 'Employees Only!'

"Locked," Joseph called, rattling the doorknob and pushing against the metal slab. With each of their efforts, the hysterical rants from behind the barricade increased in furor.

"What's goin' on in there—you guys good?" Brady called from the entrance.

"We're good," Brian yelled. "I think we've got a live one in the pharmacy."

He began kicking at the locking mechanism to no avail. A sudden roar behind him startled him, and he turned to see a flash of mottled camouflage and screaming rage. Richard Kemp leapt into the air, both feet stretched out before him, exploding into the door with the full weight of his frame in one tremendous kick that blew the door backwards, ripping the deadbolts through the wooden frame and twisting the door haphazardly on the bent hinges. Knocked flat by the impact, he grunted painfully and rolled to the side. Brian pushed through the cracked opening and forced the remnants of the door open. As he steadied himself in the doorway, an ear-shattering shriek split the air, and a blur of tangled hair and flailing limbs launched through the open space and drove Brian back into the storefront.

Richard labored to his feet and reached for Brian's dropped assault rifle, struggling to get a bead on the thrashing pair of bodies roiling before him. He edged closer, bringing the barrel close to the woman's head. Between the wails and rasps, he made out Brian's desperate shouts: "No—don't shoot—she's alive!" Richard hesitated, bringing his eyes up slightly from the iron sights. Brian managed to slide his hands down to the woman's shoulders and pushed back hard enough to allow himself to slide up and away. As the snarling mess lunged again for his throat, the thin pilot brought down a closed fist to the side of her face. Her wild shouts ceased immediately, and she crumpled to the floor, silent and still. Brian's chest heaved, and he bent at the waist to steady himself as he gripped his knees tightly.

Richard gawked in awe. "HOLY SHIT Pabst! Domestic violence much?" he yelped. "Damn son, I didn't know you knew how to throw a punch!"

"Wing open finalist my two-degree year at the Academy," Brian gasped for air as he leaned in and placed two fingers on the woman's neck. "She's just out cold. Get something to secure her with," he ordered.

"WE'RE TAKING HER WITH US?" Richard huffed.

"That bitch is crazy!" Joseph agreed.

Brian leaned in and lifted the nametag from the soiled jacket that had once been white. "She's the pharmacist," he pointed out.

"That doesn't mean shit—she's probably been holed up back there for a week livin' offa codeine, caffeine, and amphetamines!" Richard blurted.

"She's coming with us—that's my decision. Get me some kind of heavy gloves, duct tape, and zip ties if you can find them. Sloth, forget about Doc's shopping list—take these," he pulled the black garbage bags from the pouch on his hip. "Just put everything you can stuff from the pharmacy in here—no time to separate it out—convoy'll be here in about twelve minutes!" As the other officers scattered to accomplish their tasks, Brian leaned in close to the woman. A small trickle of blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, and a heavy purplewelt had already begun to swell on the side of her face. Her nametag read _Margaret Henry._ "Well Margaret," Brian whispered as he straightened her limbs into a comfortable prone position, "I hope I'm right in bringing you with us. You better wake up in a better mood."

Ten minutes later, the heavy rumble of diesel engines and the sharp, rapid thuds of three motorcycles signaled the convoy's approach. Brady and Joseph cradled the unconscious pharmacist while Richard and Brian slung trash bags filled with pill bottles over their shoulders. One of the large trucks skidded to a halt in front of the building, and Rob Itzak leaned from the window as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"You know, I'da been here sooner, but apparently I don't know how to drive either," he declared cynically. "You know me, can't shoot, can't fly, can't drive—just the random guy who'll probably be killed off on our first adventure—change my name to 'Redshirt' Itzak!" he cried. Jimmy and Mickey threw down their kickstands and rushed to help the men load her into the back of the less-laden truck. Richard pushed his bag of drugs into the rear of the Humvee and saddled in next to Brian in the lead vehicle. He reached for the side mirror and adjusted it until Vanessa's reflection, perched attentively on her Harley, found his gaze.

"I'm tellin' you brother, if that chick lights up a camel, I'm gonna declare that she's the toughest woman left on the face of the earth. I think I'm in love!" he grinned his uneven grin as wide as possible.

"Keep the top head in the game brother," Brian instructed as he threw the vehicle into gear. "Besides, I already told you—she'll kick your ass."

"I'll die a happy man!" Richard croaked.

Brian took one last look around the assembled vehicles, then threw a raised fist into the air from his window. With a circular motion of his fingers, the engines roared to life, and they began their trek towards the mountains north of the city.

As they rolled slowly through the northeast side of town, Brian felt the uneasiness growing in the pit of his stomach again. He checked his watch; they were just about on time. Though they passed occasional ambling corpses and the random grouping of a dozen or so ghouls, the emptiness of the streets only seemed to set him further on edge.

"Five hundred thousand people lived in Tucson before all of this," Brian spat nervously. "Where the fuck have they all gone?"

"Bro, you really want to know the answer to that question?" Richard asked quietly.

"Want? No. Need? I think so," Brian returned somberly.

As they turned left onto the Catalina Highway, Brian began noticing so many details of the community. He had travelled this route hundreds of times; more than half of the squadron lived in this part of town. But now, his desperate mind searched for survivable options, and he noticed things as though for the first time. A sheriff's substation… a supermarket… another pharmacy… convenience stores… all areas that provided potential relief from the coming drought of provided provisions.

He noted each, and pushed down on the accelerator.

As they made the long, straight climb past isolated housing tracts, the assembled mass of vehicles marking the rendezvous point came into view. In addition to the familiar military, police, and border patrol vehicles that had left the base more than six hours ago, several recreational vehicles, civilian trucks, and horse trailers lined the shoulders of the two-lane highway.

Brian exhaled in relief.

 _They made it._


	9. Chapter 9: High Noon

**Chapter Nine: High Noon**

Elliott Strange looked at his watch, and sighed sadly. From a chair behind him, Helen breathed slowly, trying unsuccessfully to mask the gentle sobs working their way into her every expression. By the front window, Bob stood stoically, a finger parting the thick wooden blinds just enough to allow him to survey the terrain before the old log cabin. "How many are out there?" Elliott asked quietly.

"All of them, I suppose," Bob replied coolly. "Thirty or so if I were to guess."

"Any weapons?"

"Some clubs, sticks- one asshole has a tire-iron," Bob observed.

Behind Elliott, the five remaining residents of Summerhaven who had chosen to stand behind the grizzled old man they jokingly referred to as _the Mayor_ looked on anxiously. Rifles hung across their backs, slung from their shoulders, and most of them drummed their fingers nervously on the grips of pistols strapped to their belts. Elliott counted the firearms again in his mind; _four rifles and six pistols… prob'ly half of those refugees'll scatter at the first shot… a quarter will charge without knowing what they're doin'… survival instinct…. Go for the leader first and try to change the game…._ His years as a soldier flooded his thoughts with concerns for the worst-case situation, and he mentally reviewed the coming fight from every angle.

As if he could read his thoughts, Bob asked, "Do you really think it's gonna go down like that?"

"God, I hope not," Elliott whispered. "Better to be ready if it does." As his words fell harshly around the somber crowd, Helen ceased fighting to quiet her sobs, and the sniffling whimpers filled the air.

"I'm giving him one last chance to back down… to appeal to reason," Elliott muttered, flashing a crooked grin beneath his large mustache. "You know-showcase his inner humanity."

"If he doesn't back down, there's only one way forward—we won't be able to move with the cabin behind us and all of them in front of us," Bob observed. "That means it gets real ugly, real fast."

"I'm really hoping it doesn't come to that," Elliot sighed. "Keep yer pistols handy—they decide to close the distance, those long-guns ain't gonna be much use other than lookin' fierce."

"Great plan," Bob mumbled sarcastically. "But I don't see another one." With Elliott in the lead, they pushed the creaky wooden door open and stepped into the late morning sunlight that cut hazy swaths through the thin trees surrounding the cabins.

"Gentlemen," Elliott boomed aggressively. "I'm not sure I appreciate your gathering on my doorstep like this." He kept the butt of his pistol in plain view, and the men behind him brandished their rifles, barrels angled upward across their chests.

Hank Tinsdale, his round face already reddened by the fiery words he had cast in order to rally his newfound "followers" to his cause, cast a disgusted look at the longtime Summerhaven residents. "Are those guns supposed to intimidate us?" He spat.

"No," Elliott replied, attempting to inject confidence into his words. "They're generally used for another purpose."

"We won't be intimidated," Hank retorted, his eyes suddenly transfixed on the weapons.

"We're not out here to intimidate you, Mister Tinsdale," Elliott replied in a low tone. "We're here to ask you to leave my property." Adjusting his words to the crowd, he continued. "Y'all are more than welcome to partake in our daily hospitality, but we will not tolerate this type of aggressive gathering."

"All well and good," Hank waved his arms dramatically. "But we're going to be making the rules from here on out." He pointed at the firearm near Elliott's right hand. "We'll start by making this a gun-free zone."

Elliott laughed. Bob stepped forward and pointed to his friend. "This is the Mayor of Summerhaven—he makes the rules."

"Really?" Hank asked rhetorically. "By who's decree?"

"We elected him," Bob shot back.

"Ahh," Hank smiled wickedly. "Democracy in action. Good. We'll just have a re-vote then. I think you'll find the numbers are in my favor." He looked smugly around at the group of more than two dozen men surrounding him. "So let's get past this, RIGHT NOW!" His voice rose into a fever-pitched crescendo. "I want the keys to the gas pump and the restaurant, NOW!" When Elliott and his band failed to move in the slightest, his voice rose higher, and his face turned redder. "DO YOU HEAR ME? I'M IN CHARGE AS OF. RIGHT. NOW!"

Elliott surveyed the battlespace before him. The ground was certainly more confined than the O.K. Corral, and the men behind him stood nearly shoulder to shoulder—no room to maneuver. With the tension rising exponentially before him, Tinsdale's ravings and continued screeching demands became a dull roaring in his ears. His blood boiled and thumped through his temples like a bass drum. His hand slid to the grip of his pistol. _One more chance to de-escalate,_ he thought.

He pulled back the hammer on the weapon, and it clicked into place loudly. Hank stopped mid-sentence and stared down at the cocked pistol. He lowered his voice and struggled to bring his eyes to Elliott's. His voice trembled with pure rage. "You gonna shoot me Strange? That how you handle things up here cowboy?" His eyes fluttered rapidly, and Elliott hoped that his own appeared steady. "You make the first movement of pulling that gun from its holster, and we will be on you—you can't win this, no matter how many guns you've got. YOU'VE ALREADY LOST, NOW BACK DOWN!" His voice rose again to the increased pitch carrying complete fury.

"Only thing lost here is your mind!" Bob shouted. "Anybody gets hurt here is because of you—WALK AWAY!"

"PUT YOUR GUNS DOWN AND FIGHT LIKE A MAN!" Someone called from the back.

"Real tough guy behind that trigger!" another taunted. The voices on both sides of the standoff rose until a single voice became indistinguishable amongst the

 _Maybe I don't have to get a good shot off,_ Elliott thought as he tightened his grip. _Get the barrel clear and get a shot into the dirt—that'll scare off the uncommitted… if he lunges, get it anywhere on him and squeeze… buy time for the boys to get their muzzles up…._

He clearly saw Tinsdale's fists ball and the man's weight shift forward as he prepared to lunge.

Between Hank Tinsdale's incoherent ravings, his own tactical considerations, and the rushing in his ears, Elliott Strange failed to even hear the heavy Diesel engines as they roared into town.

The men at the rear of the large crowd scattered, their eyes and lowered jaws showcasing their disbelief. Hank Tinsdale moved a step forward, and Elliott strange got the barrel of his pistol clear from its holster before the growling motors and the skidding of large tires on the gravel snapped both men away from the boiling confrontation. Desert-camouflaged Humvees and heavily-armored vehicles rolled into the heart of the small town and came to a halt at the rear of the massed gathering. Men clad in full military regalia manned turrets atop the vehicles with heavy machine guns, and a mix of white border patrol trucks emblazoned with their distinctive green stripes, sheriff's vehicles, and heavy trucks stretched the arriving convoy almost as far as the eye could see out past the winding roadway into the town.

As the tactical vehicles slid to a stop in a swirl of dust and exhaust, the doors began to crack open and the occupants emerge. From the third vehicle back, the rear door nearly flew from its hinges, and a smaller form rocketed towards the crowd staring in awe at the sudden appearance.

"UNCLE ELLIOTT!" The young woman shouted. Her tactical helmet nearly tumbled from her head as she pushed her way past the stunned men and threw herself into the tall, older man's waiting embrace.

"Kit-Kat Mack," he breathed, and pulled her tightly into his chest. Behind him, the cabin door slammed open, and Helen launched herself into the tight embrace.

"We lost our radios," Mackenzie tried to explain. "I tried to get you words that we were coming, but—" she stammered, her words falling into the sudden sobs racking the three in their locked arms.

"Say no more kid," Elliott whispered. "I knew you'd make it!" He pulled his niece tighter, then stopped to look down into her eyes, tears welling in his own. A tall man in full combat kit approached, removing his helmet and extending a hand in greeting.

"Sir, Major Gordon Meade—I take it you're in charge up here?"

Elliott grabbed the proffered hand tightly and shifted his gaze directly back to Hank Tinsdale's as he answered. "Yer damned right," he growled. "Elliott Strange—US Army, sixty-seven to sixty-eight."

"Damned glad to meet you, Mister Strange—your niece told us a lot of good things about the community up here," Major Meade began. "If you'll have us, we'd like to bed down up here."

Elliott strange pulled Mackenzie tighter with his left arm and tightened down in a firm handshake. "We'd love to have you with us." He glared at the suddenly-quiet Hank Tinsdale.

* * *

As the crowd melted away, Gordon turned to Brian and Jerry. "Let's get everyone bedded-down first—get 'em a place to lay their heads. We can unload the food, water, and gear later." An older man with a rifle slung over his shoulder—Bob, he introduced himself—offered to assist, and the two thanked him.

"I take it you're the commander then?" Elliott turned to Gordon.

"Commander, no—I'm not sure we have that kind of authority anymore," Gordon replied.

"Looks like you're in charge," the older man returned.

"I suppose, but I'm still not sure I'm the _commander._ Did we catch y'all at a bad time?"

Elliott chuckled softly. "What makes you think that?" He asked under his breath.

"Things seemed a little," Gordon searched for the right word, "… _tense."_ He smiled. "Maybe uncomfortable?"

"Interesting choice of words," Elliott growled through a grin. "Very diplomatic."

"Well sir, I could say that it looked like you were about to kill each other, but I didn't want to seem presumptuous."

Elliott laughed softly but heartily. Other than his eyes befalling his niece earlier in the day, it was the first genuine relief he had felt in weeks. "Folks gettin' scared and restless is all," he offered. "Nothin' I don't think we can't keep a finger on," he continued. "… now that y'all are up here."

Gordon sighed. "I hope you're right." He turned to the older man. "But what makes you think you can trust us? We could be the worst thing that rolled into town—massed firepower, overwhelming numbers."

Elliott smiled again and lowered his gaze. "My niece trusts you—that's all I need to know."

The two men continued through the town towards the central restaurant, and Elliott began explaining their situation. "I figger'd we got about two, maybe three days of provisions in there—things've been gettin' a little thin lately—runnin' low on stocks. We've managed to pull in a few white tails here and there to supplement, but we just didn't have enough folks to do that and keep things under control 'round town… what with all the restlessness and whatnot."

"Understood," Gordon replied. "I think we'll be set up pretty good with what we brought up—I've got more stashed back at the base—we just didn't have enough room, even with that many trucks, to get the people and the food and the water and the ammo…".

"Gonna be risky goin' back for what's left," Elliott grumbled.

"Everything's risky now," Gordon returned. "Rough calculation, I'd say we're sittin' on maybe three months of food, between the MREs and the canned goods. How are you set for water up here?"

"Probly 'bout one point five million gallons—we're set up to collect the runoff and keep it in reserve. Gonna have to purify it now—infrastructure goin' down and all."

Gordon sighed in relief. "That's a lot of water—we ration it effectively and we'll be alright."

"There are some small ponds and streams further down the mountain—we can fish those and figger out a way to let folks get cleaned up on some kind of a schedule—startin' to smell a little ripe 'round some parts, and I don't want to dip into the drinkin' supply to keep folks smellin' fresh."

"That makes sense," Gordon replied. He cocked his head in mental calculations. "If we go a gallon per person per day, we can make that supply last for years."

"Assuming it don't get polluted," Elliott offered. "How 'bout fuel? I don't suppose those big trucks and hummers you brought up are th' most fuel-efficient things on the planet."

"No, they're not," Gordon agreed. "Fuel's going to be an issue—will definitely require a detailed plan to account for it. What about billeting—how are we set up to house folks?"

"Last count I'd say we've got about four hundred and twenty-some homes up here—used to be more until the fire in oh-three—lost some two hundred and fifty houses. Most of the folks what own 'em left the keys here as rentals—I'd say we're alright to get all the families grouped together under their own roof for now."

Gordon looked off, numbers running quickly through his mind. "If we needed to double or triple up… three families per home… four per family average… we could house over four, maybe five-thousand up here… one gallon per day with that many puts us at less than a year's supply… half gallon minimum…"

"You thinking about gettin' more folks up here?"

Gordon looked up from his thoughts, a pensive but worried crease crossing his forehead. "It's my nature," he replied. "I think it's the right thing to do—been rescuing people my whole career."

"Risky proposition," Elliott repeated.

Gordon nodded thoughtfully and crossed his arms in contemplation. "Just because it's the right thing to do doesn't mean it's the smartest," he thought out loud.

"I think we're set up good for now," Elliott said. "We can jump off that bridge when we get to it. Let's focus on what folks we've got up here now and go from there."

"I think the first thing we should look at doing is getting everyone employed—keep 'em busy and productive, and maybe that'll head off an insurrection," Gordon replied

"That's a fine idea," Elliott agreed.

"Tomorrow—we'll start organizing tomorrow," Gordon planned. "Right now, why don't we issue everyone two MREs—good square meals as an alternative to what the chow hall puts out might alleviate a little stress too—give 'em options for food. They can store 'em, eat 'em now, whatever—will help make them feel a little more in control."

"I like that idea too," Elliott smiled.

"And once we get everyone billeted, we'll pull the town together and explain what's going on down there—I'm sure y'all have been cut off and not getting much info up here."

"You're right about that," Elliott answered. "But I'm not sure what you have to say is gonna make anyone feel any better about where we stand."

"Maybe not," Gordon replied. "But I think it's important that they _know."_

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Elliott digesting the discussion and Gordon breathing deeply of the mountain air freshly devoid of the putrid rot he had begun to get used to. As they drew nearer to the town center, Elliott spoke softly in a manner reminiscent of instruction and experience. "You know," he said softly, "those numbers you were crunching and the plans you're considering—you draw some of those lines out in particular directions, and they lead to some pretty dark places."

Gordon nodded knowingly. "When I think about those things, a part of me pulls back—doesn't want to go there… that part of my heart that says, _hopefully we won't have to deal with that."_ His voice dropped slightly and his tone became introspective. "Then I hear that other voice that warns about what happens if we _don't consider_ those things."

 _"_ And?" Elliott asked.

Gordon sighed. "And then, I come back to the present and focus on what can be focused on right now." He nodded towards the large crowd assembled around the restaurant. "Let's get them fed, and then we'll tell them what happened in the city."

* * *

Brian scraped the last remnants of the soggy green beans onto his spoon and looked over at his daughter. Amelia poked at the small pile of canned vegetables on her tin plate and twisted her mouth disapprovingly _._ Brian sighed and leaned in close to the nine-year-old. "Sweetheart, I know it's not like mommy used to make, but we have to eat everything we're given."

"Even if I don't like it?" The child whimpered.

"Even if you don't like it," Brian commanded softly. "I need you to get strong, and to get strong, you have to eat these beans." Amelia grimaced, but looked up at her father and flexed her arms like a miniature body-builder.

"I'll make muscles for you, daddy," she sang, picking up her fork and stabbing the limp vegetables. On the other side of him, Trevor shoveled the last scraps of food from his plate into his gaping mouth.

"Still hungry bud?"

Trevor nodded slowly, and Brian patted his shoulders understandingly. _Kid was eating us out of house and home before all this went down… he's gotta be starving._ Brian leaned in close to his son and whispered in his ear, "If your sister doesn't finish her dinner, you can take it—I think what they gave us is a little more than she can handle." Trevor nodded sadly, but his eyes flicked down expectantly toward the pile of mush Amelia had managed to form between the beans and instant potatoes. The shoulder holster hanging beneath his arms looked foreign on the young man; _he fits right in with all of us,_ Brian thought in a momentary combination of remorse and pride. _The uniform fits him good_. _I just don't think I was ready yet to see him sportin' a Beretta and OCPs yet._

Brian allowed his gaze to drift across the assembled tables pushed together to form the community cafeteria. He looked below the rising cacophony of voices and blurred faces and focused on the unique, individual moments unfolding around him. The people seemed to gather according to their careers or social norms— _clinging to the familiar,_ he thought. His fellow pilots pushed together closely, smiles fed by the small flask they passed around discreetly. _Keep the alcohol out of sight for now,_ Gordon had ordered. _This isn't the sandbox, but you guys remember what it was like out there when the dumbasses found out about someone's secret stash—stupid things happened. Keep it on the down-low and do not get shit-faced. We can't have you hungover tomorrow._ Softened eyes and wider grins spread as the flat green bottle made its way around the table.

In some places, the groups merged slightly on their borders. The security forces defenders sat on the outlying edges between the Airmen and the police forces. The young troop— _Mackenzie, I think she said her name was—the Mayor's niece… what is she, eighteen? Nineteen at the most?—_ sat almost in the protective shadow of the Master Sergeant she had shown up with. She had traded her camouflage uniforms for civilian clothes— _nice to have that option with family up here—_ and her red hair spilled down around her shoulders. Brian caught Trevor sneaking long glances in her direction, and he shook his head, smiling slightly. _He's seventeen,_ his wife's voice echoed in his mind. _Don't let the uniform you put on his shoulders or the gun hanging beneath them confuse you—he's still a teenager._

The uniformed members across both the military and civil service groupings painted a picture that might have come from any deployed dining facility. The conversations, the faces, the mannerisms—all familiar and recognizable in the way of reacquainting with the austere lifestyle found in far-flung, godforsaken corners of the earth.

Except that this was home, now.

He looked across the unfamiliar desperation found in the faces of the civilians spread out across the tables. They tended to gather in much smaller groups—small families that managed to survive the outbreak… a new friend or just a known face and name… temporary allies. A father placed three tin plates before two restless children and a woman who looked up with hollow, angry eyes. Even from his distance, Brian could clearly make out her disdain as she spat quietly, "This again?" The man looked down sadly, any explanation escaping him as he moved the plates towards his sons. At the other end of the table, a single mother sat with two young boys on either side of her—a forced but cheery smile spread across her tired face as she bounced her gaze between the two bubbly youngsters. The tight but slightly haggard and frizzy blonde curls ringing her face bounced lazily as she repeatedly turned her attention to each child. _Two families,_ Brian thought. _Two different outlooks, opposite perspectives… this is the new norm._ He clasped his hands together and leaned in on his knuckles. _Which direction will we go?_

At the far end of the open-air gathering, he caught the quick, angry gestures of the man who had been at the epicenter of the tense assembly earlier in the day. _Keep an eye on that guy,_ Gordon had whispered to both Brian and the few pararescuemen. _If there's going to be trouble up here, it's going to start with him._ Hank Tinsdale—short, balding, slightly overweight—sat beside a larger man who nodded often as Hank's stubby fingers poked the air between them or gesticulated rapidly. The other man—Brian didn't know his name—seemed to look on with heated eyes below his receding hairline. He didn't speak, the thin goatee framing his pursed lips remaining motionless as he intently followed whatever line of reasoning Tinsdale spewed. Brian observed that the taller man limped slightly when he walked— _Service? Old sports injury?_ he wondered. _Keep an eye on him too,_ he told himself before turning his attention back to the child beside him still poking at her green beans.

"Finish up, angel. We have to make room for others to sit down."

* * *

The tension seemed to return immediately as Gordon and Elliott walked towards the front of the gathered crowd, almost as though someone had turned it on with the flick of a switch. Voices quieted to an uncomfortable and anxious silence. Tinsdale and his friend positioned themselves exactly in the center of the civilians, Brian noticed. Gordon placed one boot up on a crate and leaned towards the assembly.

"Good evening," he began. "I'll do my best to make sure everyone can hear me—obviously we don't have any microphones anymore." A couple of awkward chuckles rose from the crowd. "I'm Major Gordon Meade—I wa—am—a combat rescue officer down at Davis Monthan, and Mister Strange and I agree that its best to let you all know as much as we know about what's going on down there." Brian noticed Tinsdale's mouth open to speak, but Gordon cut him off before he could form the words. "If you'd be kind enough to hold your questions, I'll do my best to tell you everything I know—no secrets." Tinsdale snapped his jaw closed, and his face flushed slightly.

"First thing I know that's on all of your minds," he started again. "Yes, the dead are walking the earth." A stifled gasp rifled through the assembled people. "It's not a disease, it's not a condition, and from what we've seen, it's not curable." His words circumvented the crowd in hushed murmurs, and he waited for the voices to calm again. "Worse, the dead will attack on sight, and they will attempt to consume the flesh of any living thing." He pointed to a tall, thin, bespectacled man with thinning hair. "Doc Maury Boone is an Air Force flight surgeon—Doc, you wanna tell 'em what you know?"

Doc Boone shuffled to the front of the crowd and cleared his throat. His soft voice cracked, and he struggled to project his words. "It's true—all of it. Our medical teams in the local area were in contact with the CDC until the grid went down—I last received updates about four days ago. The CDC has, or had, many satellite locations that were actively working on the situation, but I'm sorry to say that there's so much that we just don't know." He lowered his face slightly and looked out over the top of his glasses. "We believe that the condition—" he glanced over his shoulder, "—sorry Gordon, but I do call it a _condition,"_ he smiled weakly. "—can be spread through infection or simple expiration—err, death—you don't have to be bitten in order to turn, post-mortem." He looked around at the frightened, confused faces and tried to continue. "The condition appears to center around the reactivation of the brain—how and why we don't know. But if you can destroy the brain of a turned individual, the condition is…" he struggled for the best word. "…rectified."

Gordon placed his hand on the man's shoulder and moved before him. "Thanks, Doc." He looked around the assembly again. "I don't know how long y'all have been up here, but I'll go back a few weeks. Inan attempt to contain the outbreak, the government ordered quarantines and safe zones to be established in all major cities where the National Guard could protect the uninfected—that plan fell apart on just about every level. There was a major campaign in New York to prove that the military could handle the situation, and it too went to shit—complete failure. That set in motion a massive panic that spread across the nation, and from what we can see, the world. People fled in every direction—that's probably about the timeframe most of y'all came up here." He paused and drew a deep breath. "That's when the order came down—firebomb the cities." Another startled gasp shot through the crowd. "The belief was that all survivors that could be accounted for had been placed in the safe-zones—we had three of them on the north side of the base in the old neighborhoods—some ten, maybe fifteen-thousand survivors—"

"There were five _hundred thousand_ people in Tucson," a sobbing woman's voice interrupted.

"Yes ma'am—there were," Gordon replied softly. "The order was not received lightly—everyone understood what we had been asked to do." He leveled his eyes. "My team from the rescue group was on standby to immediately infiltrate the infected zones after the bombing mission to sweep for every living survivor left in Tucson—my team had a survivability expectation of that mission of less than ten percent. _Not one of the pilots who launched on that mission returned—some of them died on the ground when the base was overrun."_

"Overrun?" someone called. "You mean attacked? By people or the dead?"

"A criminal element," Gordon explained, "…that we believe to be gang-related based on the weaponry we found, organized an uprising of the safe zones that coincided with our mission to eradicate the plague by fire—they blew a hole in the base defenses and, in the chaos that followed, overran the base and completely infected it with the dead."

Sobs began rising from the crowd. Heads hung in utter despair as the realization of a crumbled society and terrifying existence in the horror-scape below their mountain sanctuary materialized in every individual's thoughts.

"You bombed our city," a high-pitched voice hissed from the center of the mass. "And now you're here to take over and start barking orders in some kind of military-led junta!"

"Mister Tinsdale," Gordon replied before he could even see the man's likeness emerging from the sea of frightened faces. He wagered that he might throw the man off-balance by calling him by name after only arriving a few hours earlier, and the momentary shock that spread across the rotund red face implied that the tactic may have had an effect. "Sir, there's no military conspiracy here—"

"YOU BOMBED OUR CITY AND NOW EXPECT US TO LISTEN TO YOU?" the man cried.

Gordon stared hard at the man moving towards him. Sensing the argument that his adversary clearly wanted in order to cement his own stature amongst the refugees, Gordon smiled slightly and altered course. "Mister Tinsdale—you clearly have a plan—why don't you come on up here and tell all of us what you think we should be doing right now to deal effectively with the situation."

Hank stopped in his tracks and looked around nervously. He stammered, "I—well, I think-, I, ahh…"

"You do have a plan ready for us, yes?" Gordon challenged. "As a former Tucson Unified School District board member and city-councilman, you have _do have_ a suggested course of action?"

"I—ah, of course… uh, we should start with electing—"

"Ah, democracy in action—sticking to the principles," Gordon led. Tinsdale nodded nervously in agreement. "Of course, you realize that our nation was never a pure democracy—majority rule and all—representative democracy is a better term—a _republic_ if you want to be precise."

"Ah, I—of course—you know—" Hank stuttered.

Gordon narrowed his eyes and moved closer to the sweating red face before him. He leaned in close to Hank Tinsdale's ear and whispered. "Be careful about calling for an election—I think you'll find the numbers to be in _our favor."_

Hank Tinsdale drew back, a sudden fear flashing behind his eyes that was quickly replaced by the clear ire and rage that continued to boil up from his neck.

Before he could reply, Gordon spun on his heels and returned to the head of the assembly. "Sir, your suggestion is well-noted and we will address this at our first town-hall meeting." He turned back to the crowd and glared at Tinsdale. "Please do not misidentify the security of the moment as implying that we are living ops-normal. Make no mistake, this is survival—pure and simple— _we are fighting for our very survival here."_

"Yeah, sit down, asshole," a voice fired from the back of the crowd. Tinsdale looked around nervously and took a step backwards. His eyes never left Gordon's, and the look that he fired back at the uniformed man clearly stated that this was far from their last engagement.

Gordon sighed loudly and crossed his arms. "Look, I don't know if there's even a government out there anymore—we lost communications with higher headquarters a few days ago—I don't know if the rank on my uniform means anything anymore." He looked up and nodded slowly. "But I do know how to survive. I know how to fight. If we can pull together, we just might have a chance. We won't make it happen overnight—but one step at a time. We're not here to dictate. We're here to protect. I know that some of you—hell, most of you, may not believe that right now, and after what happened down there, I don't blame you.

"Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, I'd like to set up a program to find out what each and every one of us bring to the table—skills, experiences—even hobbies. From there we'll set up our little slice of society up here and attack the problem. We have enough food and water to get us through the next few months one-hundred-percent on our own, so we've got time on our side. For now.

"We brought up a lot of equipment from the base—solar panels, radios—things like that. There's still more to get back there, but we'll figure that out.

"I know you're scared—this is nothing any of us ever thought we'd confront in a thousand lifetimes, but here it is. We have security. We have food. We have water. Please get a good night's sleep tonight—we'll hit this head-on tomorrow morning."

Elliott stepped forward and bellowed, "Folks, breakfast will be served here at seven a-m tomorrow morning—these troops brought up powdered eggs and oatmeal, so a little change for once!"

A few weak smiles spread through the crowd as they slowly dispersed. A handful of men walked forward and offered Gordon a heartfelt handshake and a clap on the back. Brian noticed that Tinsdale and his friend retreated to the shadows to fire occasional angry expressions their way. He shuffled over to Gordon as the last man departed into the cool night air.

"You have a plan?" Brian asked quizzically.

Gordon sighed. "I figure I just bought us twenty-four hours or so to come up with one."


End file.
